


Shutter Hues

by OrsFri



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cold War, Alternate Universe - Photographer, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrsFri/pseuds/OrsFri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivan hates sunsets, while Gilbert chases after them.</p><p>A story set in East Berlin at the tail-ends of détente</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shutter Hues

There are a million ways to describe a billion sorts of sunsets from all over the world, but he has only seen one type from the tiny corner of his world, and it is hard to put vision into words when there is nothing to compare it with.

Grey, Ivan thinks, like the concrete blocks below the sky. Quick; A blink, and the colour changes, plunging into a dark blue and then pitching black, the streetlights like stars too big and bright against the colourless backdrop.

It's not pretty. He doesn't know how the photographers do it.

"It's not witchcraft," Gilbert argues, elbowing him. "It's just that you have to be at the right place at the right time, and with the right weather, of course."

The weather. Of course it's the weather - it's always the damned weather. Forgot your keys? The heat made you lethargic and careless. Tripped? It's the autumn leaves that covered up the gaps on the ground.

"Geez, you are gloomy," Gilbert says, but shuffles closer to Ivan anyway. They make quite a sight, both of them: alone at a shady bus-stop in the middle of nowhere, shivering from the late-night chill, steadfastly not looking at each other even though their sides are pressed together.

Won't that get the tongues of nosy old ladies wagging? He voices it out, and Gilbert chuckles.

"Do you mind if they do?" Gilbert asks. "If they talk. About us."

The temperature feels like it has plunged seven degrees in a matter of seconds. Ivan exhales, and he can almost see the white wisps of breath.

He stares at the ceiling instead, watching the flies buzzing about and bumping against the glass of the neon lights. "I don't know."

Gilbert follows his gaze and, without a second word, takes a photo with the camera hanging from his neck. It is not quiet, because there is the whirring of a camera processing, there is the _zz_ flashing of electricity running through wires, and there is the wind, whistling, low and quietly but _there_ , and yet-

And yet the air feels so heavy Ivan feels like his shoulders are about to snap. He does not need to see to know that Gilbert is fiddling with the camera, and then the movement stills and it is hesitation now, a lot of waiting for any cue because _what next, now what, Ivan?_

He clears his throat. "Do you?" he continues. "Do you mind?"

Gilbert tenses against him, and suddenly Ivan feels like laughing, because only _Gilbert_ can breach past all his defences and inhibitions about physical contact, and yet make him feel like they are the very opposite of intimate when they are _fucking pressed against one another._

Gilbert closes his eyes and sucks in a sharp breath. "No," he finally decides, and turns his head. His eyes holds Ivan's firm, and there is something about how steely it is, the glint in its depth, that makes the answer seems like a challenge.

A test will be a more appropriate description, Ivan thinks. And so he does the next thing on his mind and finally laces their fingers together. Gilbert stares at it. Ivan resolutely refuses to.

"I don't know, but I don't think I will," Ivan says, and squeezes his hand a little.

Surprise, surprise: Gilbert squeezes back. "That's good," he mutters, and it is like an invisible wall has just melted away, and Gilbert finally relaxes against him. Ivan returns the favour, leaning a little harder until it feels like he will fall off the bench the moment Gilbert moves away.

They stay like that until the bus arrives, and Ivan manages not to let go. If he notices Gilbert trying to stop smiling, Ivan doesn't point it out.


	2. PART ONE: golden hour

Ivan can’t shake the habit of watching over his shoulders, so he never gets shocked, not when he is wary of every shadow. It comes with being a Soviet officer’s son, he thinks.

 _One can never be too careful,_ once said Pap.

 _Just in case,_ Pap says another time.

At this point, Ivan is resigned to his inevitable fate of an early death, but that doesn’t mean he  _wants_ to die - no, at the very least, he tries his very best to _prolong_ his  _youth_ by being wary. Some calls it paranoia. Ivan calls it self-defence against public menace like  _Gilbert Beilschmidt,_ who (despite Ivan’s best efforts and years of practice evading tails) manages to sneak up on him  _all the time._

Ivan doesn’t have blindspots, he knows, but then out comes Gilbert from out of nowhere, slipping out by Ivan’s side without Ivan’s notice until Gilbert bumps their elbows together and says, “Where’re you heading?”

“Where did you come from?” Ivan replies.

Gilbert grins, wide and cheeky with dimples ( _God,_ Ivan frantically thinks,  _why do you torture me so)_ and shrugs. “I was  _walking,_ trying to scout for opportunities for pictures. Then I saw you.”

A lot of things that happen with Gilbert seems to be a very fortunate series of events and coincidences. It’s how they meet: someone crashes a car trying to force their way through checkpoint, Ivan is sadly on duty and skivving off with the younger guards as Pap does whatever damage control he always does, and in come Gilbert with a camera.

“I am an artist,” Gilbert claims, when they stopped him, “a photographer.”

“A journalist too?” Ivan has guessed.

Gilbert pauses. “Well,” he says then, “a man’s got to eat.”

Ivan lets him take the pictures.

In a few days time, Ivan will bump into Gilbert on the streets near a neglected, bombed out building that is really more of a war relic. Gilbert will ask him out for coffee as thanks - _no, beer. I can’t afford coffee_ _, you know._

The coffee here is exorbitant and also too weak, anyway, especially after having drunk those rich, imported ones that are only obtained due to the privilege of Pap’s position; beer, meanwhile, are thin and grainy and even weaker. But it’s the DDR in the late seventies, so Ivan says yes, and that, he supposes, is where it all begins.

* * *

The sky is dull and light, its faint glow painting the ordered, pale buildings even more whitewashed than they already are.

Gilbert seems to fade right into the setting, paled by the black coat he is wearing. He crouches vaguely, leaning against a lamp-post at a junction as he squints into his camera. 

Ivan watches until Gilbert’s fingers shift and there is the fluttering of the shutter, before calling out, “Were you waiting for me?”

Gilbert does not startle. “Honey,” he begins, mocking and saccharine as he straightens up, “you do know that not everything in the world is about you?”

“With you, it’s always about harassing me,” Ivan huffs, and savours the timbres of Gilbert’s laugh, bright and throaty. He gestures vaguely about. “Where to, today?”

“I don’t know, I was thinking you can treat me to coffee.” Gilbert smirks. “ _Good_ coffee.”

“Pap doesn’t do embezzlement,” Ivan reminds, “only ambiguous ties, remember?”

And that means access to proper imported coffee - which, despite Pap having to pay out of his own pocket, is still better than for the average East Berliner that can’t find good coffee in the stores _even_ if they have money. 

Gilbert knows this. Gilbert knows that Ivan knows Gilbert knows this. Gilbert snorts again, elbowing him in the ribs. “Better coffee than the average then; won’t dare to sneak some off your father’s stash.”

Ivan opens his mouth to answer, but his voice remains stuck in his throat for a second too long that his reply already dissipates in his mind. “Well,” he manages instead, and hesitates again.

Gilbert stares at him, something curious flashing across his face. “ _Well,_ ” Gilbert echoes, throwing an arm across his back that is almost too familiar. Almost - that is the important part, and none of the passers-by slow in their gait; Ivan forces his shoulders to slacken. “Well, let’s not talk about your dad and ruin the good mood. I want my coffee.”

“I have just the thing,” says Ivan.

* * *

Once, on an open rooftop of a complex, Ivan remembers sitting across from Gilbert and talking about birthdays. 

Somehow, the conversation spins out of their control, and Gilbert, loose-limbed from all the black market vodka, shares, “My mother was from Königsberg.”

“Kaliningrad,” Ivan corrects automatically.

Gilbert shrugs. “If you say so.” He stretches both arms in the air, inhaling the evening air sharply. “She’s now East Berliner, anyway.”

“Huh.” Ivan focuses on the curve of Gilbert’s arms, the arch of his back, and doesn’t lean in the way he wants to, back before Ivan finally admits it all to himself. “And you’re born here?”

“Somewhat.” Gilbert’s head lolls, and their eyes meet. Gilbert’s eyes are glittering against the dark night, shiny buttons and unshined jewels in the moonlight, and Ivan wants to crystalise this image forever for him to look back to. “It’s complicated. The borders changed, the names changed; family’s all over the place. I don’t care.”

“But those are your roots,” Ivan argues, “your family.”

“Yeah yeah.” Gilbert stares back out at the city lay out below him, and if they squint, they can see the various buildings on the other side of the wall. “That’s what they all say.”

“Do you not believe them?”

“I just miss indulging in my vices,” Gilbert deflects. “Good beer, good smokes, and good coffee. God, _coffee.”_ He groans. Ivan, feeling very confused, flushes. “I miss coffee.”

The memory of this conversation is what leads to Ivan standing at the cashier with an armful of groceries (and an additional pack of cigarettes), blinking as he prods, “But it was seven marks last week.”

“Yes, sir,” the storekeeper replies, looking rather impatient. “But the price is nine marks today.”

It - it makes sense, per se, given what Ivan has glimpsed of Pap’s reports. And it’s not _unreasonable,_ the inflation, given the state of the global economy, but -

“The price of coffee has fallen though,” the shopkeeper continues. “But not by much. It’s still ridiculously expensive.”

“Right.” Ivan clears his throat, and gestures at the alcohol cabinet. “How much is your strongest cognac?”

Someone standing in queue snorts.

* * *

“Where are you taking me?” Gilbert questions, but his steps do not falter. Ivan likes that - likes Gilbert’s trust, even though Ivan is the son of a Soviet officer and a word from him can get Gilbert arrested and having coffee with everyone’s favourite Stasi officers. “I really want coffee, Ivan.”

“I snuck out a bag,” Ivan admits. “I told Pap I developed a recent addiction.”

“Oh? And what does he say?”

“He says I ought to develop a cheaper addiction.”

Gilbert barks out a startled laugh. “I wasn’t expecting your old man to have a sense of humour.”

“He is a multifaceted man,” Ivan professes, lips twitching as Gilbert cackles even louder.

Ivan ushers Gilbert into one of the restaurants at the side of the street; he reaches into his coat and pulls out the small sachet of coffee powder that he separates out. Julia gasps in delight, but Ivan holds it higher just as she makes a grab for it.

“Only for personal use,” he reminds, setting down the sachet gently. “I am serious.”

Julia pouts, but she is a smart girl, because in the end she takes the coffee into the kitchen and returns a few minutes later, after Gilbert and Ivan has settled down at a spare table located just between the noisiest part of the restaurant and the open road. The cups she set down are both covered with a wooden lid.

“Enjoy!” Julia chirps. She skips away, leaving a wondrous Gilbert staring curiously at Ivan.

“Is this what they call corruption?” Gilbert teases. “Bribery?”

Ivan shushes him good-naturely. “The walls have ears,” he replies, “and I am _not_ corrupt _._ ”

The former is only a half-lie, but Gilbert doesn’t need to know that. Gilbert removes the lid, inhaling deeply, eyes closed and lips turning up in an open-mouthed smile as he savours the scent. “I really, really miss this,” he tells Ivan, before taking a small sip. The moan he releases is almost orgasmic - Ivan’s heart is conflicted between lust and joy. “Thank you.”

“There’s more,” Ivan assures. “Also, I bought cigarettes. And cognac, among other things.”

Gilbert’s eyes widen. “Your father’s?”

“No: from the Intershop.” Gilbert whistles. “Technically, I hold a Soviet passport.”

“Ah, privileges.” Gilbert sighs, “I barely even managed to take pictures of the Intershops.”

“You are not supposed to take _any._ ”

“I was taking pictures of the streets!” Gilbert defends, hands instinctively reaching out towards his messenger bag that he _always_ carries around. “I have some negatives with me. I can show you: the images can be seen if you hold it up to the sun -”

“Yes, I know, you told me,” Ivan interrupts. He sighs, and leans in on his elbow. “Gilbert, do you know why I am doing this?”

“… What?”

He wants to lean forward and breach the final distance; kneads the crease between Gilbert’s eyebrows away and shuts Gilbert’s eyes, darting and panicked, with a stroke of his thumb. He wants to lean in and envelopes Gilbert’s clenched fists in his, and rubs the back of Gilbert’s hands until Gilbert relaxes. He does none of that. “It’s your birthday.”

Gilbert visibly deflates. “Oh.” He shoots back up alarmingly quick, gaping. “ _Oh.”_ Then: “Wait, how did you know that?”

“You told me.”

“I don’t remember I did,” Gilbert points out. Ivan quickly backtracks through all their conversations. “Or did I?” Ivan is starting to think that Gilbert really did not. “Ah well, never mind that. Thanks anyway.”

“It’s your birthday,” Ivan repeats as way of explanation. “At the very least, you deserve this.”

Gilbert laughs again, small and tender. “ _Ivan._ ”

Ivan barrels on. “Can’t I do something nice for you?”

The noise of the crowd seems to roar even louder for a second, even though there is never much of a crowd in the first place; then Gilbert says, “Of course,” and Gilbert says, “You really meant what you say then,” with so much wonder and hope in his voice that Ivan’s heart escalates into allegro, suspended in anticipation and knee-jerk fear for just a second, before Ivan manages to croak, “I don’t lie.”

“I know,” Gilbert replies. “That’s why I chose you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People think this is a filler chapter, I think that this is a settings chapter, but not-sure-how-to-write-this-fic-but-there-is-a-plot-somewhere is what this chapter really is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Layered conversations, how loathed and loveth art thou.

These days, Ivan trails along as Gilbert goes around taking photos. Ivan has to stop him several times, in the beginning, because Gilbert is breaking laws - because he is taking the _wrong_ kind of photos, and Ivan can’t allow that. It’s less frequent nowadays, anyway, and Gilbert pauses in front of a mural declaring the ultimate triumph of socialism.

He takes a quick snap of the mural, and at Ivan’s raised eyebrow, defends, “It’s pretty.”

Ivan supposes it is. It is certainly colourful, unlike the rest of the colour scheme of the buildings. He has heard that the messages painted on the other side of the wall is much more colourful than what they have here though; he has seen _pictures_ of vaguely homoerotic symbolism. 

“Those are different,” Gilbert argues, “those are _political.”_

Yes, and factually inaccurate; the West is starting to hate the Soviets again, after all. Gilbert harrumphs and elbows Ivan. “But things got a lot better recently, didn’t it? The past decade is better.”

“But in the end, the core of the issue doesn’t change,” Ivan replies flatly.

Gilbert stares, searching for - for _something_ from Ivan’s face. “But I can hope,” Gilbert finally says, something resigned in his voice, and Ivan thinks about all that he knows: Pap’s papers, Gilbert, the state of the world as viewed from his corner of it, and he doesn’t push.

“Yeah,” he says, “you can.”

* * *

Gilbert invites Ivan back to his apartment, once, because Gilbert needs to get something and doesn’t want to leave Ivan waiting in the streets.

Ivan has never feels so violated  _and_ violating in his life. He doesn’t tell Gilbert that.

But what Ivan  _does_ know is that Gilbert’s apartment has always been strangely clinical: sparse with non-descriptive tables and dull metal beds, plain walls with that _one_ landscape painting of a Mediterranean harbour. 

“Are you going to tell me that with the right angle and the right lighting at the right time of the day, the room will look beautiful?” Ivan asks drily.

Gilbert snorts, and steps back until his shoulder is pressed against Ivan’s front, and surveys the room. “Honestly? I think this is fucking ugly no matter how you look at it,” he replies, and Ivan laughs and laughs and for one frenzied moment, he thinks that this is the moment he may kiss Gilbert.

But the thought of Pap looming over and watching them jolts Ivan quietly at the back of his mind, so Ivan simply leans in, leans into Gilbert, and asks him out to a new show at the theatres,  _won’t you come watch it with me, after dinner?_

Gilbert always says yes.

They spend days and evenings walking around, doing nothing in particular, Gilbert snapping and snapping photos: the sky, the buildings. People. Ivan is a constant fixture in the pictures, but Gilbert likes to take candid pictures of people living their lives, from the housewives to the soldiers to the kids running through the streets.

“Journalist,” Ivan accuses without much heat.

“Artistic preferences,” Gilbert defends, tone as lightly too.

Gilbert sometimes talk about visiting the other parts of East Germany on a long-term basis, to  _vary the diversity of my photos,_ but somehow he never does leave East Berlin. Perhaps it is the charm of the place, the feeling of constantly being watched, the possibility of spies - Allied or Soviet - constantly scurrying about; the feeling of being in the best-developed city in the USSR, of all the controversies and paradoxes intermingling together in one tiny half of a city, shadows of history still slinking about in every cracks. Either way, Gilbert stays, and Gilbert continues snapping pictures in East Berlin, and Ivan revels in the company and the warm comfort while it lasts.

The same, weird sort of familiarity and comfort doesn’t apply the next time Gilbert invites Ivan up to his apartment. “To take a break,” claims Gilbert, “enjoy some quiet,” and Ivan _knows._ Gilbert - Gilbert _wants,_ he thinks, and it isn’t that Ivan doesn’t want, but Ivan _fears,_ in a way that Gilbert won’t ever know.

Gilbert thinks he’s just scared. _He_ lets Gilbert thinks he is just scared, a blushing young dilettante fresh out of the closet, too _spooked_ to accept all the paraphernalia and associations that come with admitting a topic as crude as sexuality.

(Gilbert is not wrong, but - Ivan _is_ scared of stepping out and accepting this, this _taboo_ aspect that he has suppressed for so long. But for Gilbert, Ivan is willing to try and face up to it all. He hopes Gilbert believes that.)

Gilbert shuts the door with a click, and Ivan makes sure to sit down on the stiffest, most skeletal chair in the corner. Gilbert flops onto the bed. 

“I’m beat,” Gilbert complains, rolling over. “They just bought a ton of my pictures, but I can’t bear to sell some of them.”

“Who?”

“The press.” Gilbert pushes himself up on his elbows. “And some foreign curators. Artists. They want to put up a gallery comparing the two Berlins or something. Those are a side job though, unofficial. They don’t matter.” He reaches out towards his bedstead and pulls the camera over by its strap. “And then they tried to promote me.”

Ivan stills his fingers from fidgeting. “The press wants you to become permanent?”

“Yeah.” Gilbert flicks at the flash and aims the camera at Ivan. A quick click, and he’s just taken _another_ picture of Ivan. Ivan is taking up too many of Gilbert’s film already. “I tried rejecting them.”

“Too much restrictions?”

“And too political,” Gilbert agrees. “They told me to consider it.”

“You should be happy,” Ivan says, glancing out of the window. A pair of brothers race down the pavement. “It is highly beneficial to your portfolio.”

“You know that is not the point,” Gilbert replies, a warning edge in his voice. “ _Ivan.”_

It could go in so many ways. _I don’t want to leave you,_ Gilbert can mean. _I am an artist first, and a journalist photographer second,_ is another possibility. _We need to talk about our future,_ seems to be the most likely candidate, given how the past few weeks have been. 

“I-” Ivan begins, when the lights flicker. He frowns. “I hope it doesn’t-”

The lights go out.

“Not again,” Ivan swears, feeling a hand against the wall as he wanders away from the window. “Winter is coming soon, and they still haven’t fixed the shortage problem.”

“Tough times these days,” Gilbert agrees, and Ivan can feel him groping in the dark, the nubs of Gilbert’s fingers brushing against his elbows. “Ah, there you are.”

Gilbert guides Ivan over until Ivan settles at the edge of the bed. There is much fumbling, until they both fit themselves comfortably on the bed.

“Do you have a torch? Or candles?” Ivan asks, crossing his legs. “Or do you prefer for us to just wait in the dark?”

“I do have it but -” Gilbert pauses, and there is some shuffling. “Ivan, I am going to do something. Will you trust me?”

“What, I -” he stops himself, wetting his lips. “Yes.”

“That’s good.” Gilbert drops his voice to a breathless whisper, the quiet rasp of his voice barely intelligible even in the silence, punctuated only by white noise and stray voices from neighbours and the streets. “Look, everything’s dark: if no one sees anything, no one else _knows_ anything, it’s easy to pretend that nothing happened if you don’t want to, right?”

“What -“ 

"Just trust me,” Gilbert interrupts, and kisses him.

Ivan is too shock to react, but when he does, he doesn’t know _how_ to, except soften and let Gilbert lean into him, mouth hot and wet and hands searching for purchase, body pressing forward.

Then it’s gone, faster and more brief than Ivan can ever dream of. “Come on,” says Gilbert, throat hoarse. He coughs. “Let’s look for a torch - I must have kept it _somewhere_.”

Ivan is still at a lost for word, so the silence that unfolds as they rummage around is almost ridiculously awkward. The awkwardness quickly descends into plain frustration as the torch seems nowhere in sight and Ivan _can’t stop stubbing himself,_ until Gilbert makes the brilliant decision to actually reach under the bed and fishes out the torch. In his excitement, Gilbert switches it on without warning - the flash of it blinds Ivan and Ivan _yelps,_ loud and pained and stumbling right into a lamp. Gilbert hurriedly snaps off the switch just as the lamp goes crashing.

“Are you ok?” GIlbert hurriedly lunges forward, grappling onto Ivan and preventing him from destroying anymore furniture. 

“ _My eyes._ ”

“I’m sorry.” And Gilbert’s hands are cupped around his face again, a thumb stroking the edge of Ivan’s eyes. Ivan can see the glint of reflection off Gilbert’s sclera as Gilbert searches Ivan’s face. He’s not sure the backlight is dim enough that Gilbert can see anything concrete.

Then Gilbert stills, and after a pregnant pause, drops both hands off Ivan’s face, but doesn’t step back. It - there is always this weird feeling, Ivan feels, the buzz on the skin when two people are too close together. When Ivan is a kid, he used to believe that it comes from having so narrow a distance between both of them, so close that he can feel the vibration of atoms and molecules, the weird dashes of electrons and charges, and even though he knows now that science doesn’t work that way, sometimes he wonders if it is possible for two people to press close enough together that they become one.

Gilbert clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, and moves to step back when Ivan shushes him.

“It’s a blackout,” Ivan mutters, “no one can see.” And then he pauses and waits, and waits and waits until Gilbert draws closer again, so close that Ivan can feel the vaguest brushing of Gilbert’s lips against his as Gilbert hesitates and tries to speak. Gilbert presses, just slightly more, chaste and gentle, and pulls back almost immediately.

“This is a lot more difficult now that the adrenaline is gone,” Gilbert whispers, self-deprecating, but he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t lean forward for a- a _third_ kiss either.

Ivan chuckles quietly. “Actually,” he begins. Pauses. His breath catches in his throat and Gilbert shifts, stroking down Ivan’s arms and finding Ivan’s hands to grab onto. “Actually, do you want to go to the theatres? This Saturday? There’s a new show performing then.”

“I - yes. Yes. I would like that.” Gilbert lifts up their joined hands, and presses a soft kiss on Ivan’s knuckles. “I would really like that.” He smiles against Ivan’s knuckles, and Ivan lets out a sigh that he doesn’t even know he’s holding.

* * *

They are pressed together as they make their way into the theatre, and Gilbert, cautiously, twines their fingers together as they make their way through the crowd. When Gilbert lets go, Ivan lets him.

The lights dim eventually; the dance begins, a dim blue light glowing from the floor of the stage as the orchestra begins to play. Halfway through it, in the cover of the darkness, Ivan reaches out and rests his palm against the cold of the back of Gilbert’s hands. A pause, and Gilbert flips his hand over and their palms press together, heat against heat and fleshy nubs curving to fit together with each other. 

The show ends. Gilbert doesn’t move. Ivan flinches, but he doesn’t remove his hand when the light goes on, and that, he supposes, makes all the difference.  


	4. Chapter 4

“I am starting a new collection,” Gilbert announces, “titled ‘Boring Snapshots of Daily Life Behind the Wall’. It’s going to be awesome and win me so many awards and I am going to hate it so much.”

“If that’s what you’re going to do, I’m not stopping you,” Ivan tells him.

“Onward to global fame it is, both outside and behind the wall.” Gilbert grins. “This one is going to be purely people-centric.”

“Sure.”

“And you will be my number one specimen!” Gilbert exclaims, slapping Ivan on the back. Hard. “Of course, I will say that you’re a friend, then after I am old and partially-retired, reveals that you are actually _the_ son of _the_ Soviet officer. Boom! Renewed interest in my work again.”

“And, in praise of the most uncommunistic spirit, in flows the money,” Ivan supplies smoothly. Gilbert snorts. “Honestly, I don’t care what you do as long as you don’t get both of us in trouble.”

“ _Sure,”_ Gilbert echoes, wriggling his eyebrows, “I will be an upstanding East Berliner that will do the grand ol’ union proud.”

“The motherland sheds a single tear,” Ivan says, face carefully empty, and Gilbert explodes into guffaws.

* * *

The next few days go a little like this: Gilbert drills Ivan for the best places to people-watch, and then proceeds to make Ivan bring him there so that they can pretend to chill while Gilbert subtly assesses their surroundings for camera-worthy scenes.

So far, they have: _Waitress flirting with Man, Kids skating down the street, Mother and Daughter, Mother and Daughters, Mother and Son and Daughter, Mother and Baby, Mother and -_

“I think you need to slow down with the mother-themed pictures,” Ivan advises.

Gilbert looks scandalised. “Are you kidding?” he exclaims. “People eat up pictures like this like they are starving!” His eyes light up at something he saw over Ivan’s shoulders, and he quickly snaps another photo.

“But what about fathers?” Ivan urges. “And grandparents, and friends, and lovers -”

“I don’t care about lovers. If I want lovers, I’ll just take a picture of us,” Gilbert interrupts absent-mindedly. Then he finally registers his words. His fingers slip and he fumbles with his camera. “I, uh, yeah. Why do I care about other people?”

“Of course you don’t,” Ivan teases, and kicks Gilbert under the table. 

Gilbert kicks him back, but Ivan expects it and ducks his shins out of the way; cue laughter. Is it, Ivan wonders, how all dates are supposed to be like? Are his parents’ dates as light-hearted and cheerfully relaxing as this? Why, _had_ his parents even _go_ on dates?

There’s a sudden click of a shutter; Ivan starts. “What are you doing?”

“You look like you’re contemplating something serious,” Gilbert explains cheekily. “This one is titled _Man in Deep Thought._ Or, or I can do, _Man Perturbed Over Taxes_!”

“Please don’t.”

“Too bad, I’m the photographer, I make the final calls,” he teases. When Ivan doesn’t smile back, Gilbert sighs and leans over the table, propping himself up on his elbows. “Hey, you alright?”

“Yes, but I just - ” Ivan shakes his head. “I’m just wondering.” Gilbert stares. “About us,” Ivan adds. “I’ve never went on dates before. As in, not _never,_ but not… not like this. This is personal. Casual. It’s so different, I never - I uh, you understand me, don’t you?”

“Not really,” Gilbert admits.

“Never mind then.” He looks out to the road. Gilbert doesn’t move back, nor does he fill the ensuing silence; Ivan feels his stare at the side of his face. “I mean, this feels unique, like something that belongs to me. Us. I don’t know - forget it.”

“I think,” Gilbert begins slowly, “I catch your gist. I still don’t really understand, but - yeah. I get you.”

Wow. That’s a new one. No one has ever said that to Ivan before: conversations have always ended in frustration. “Thank you,” Ivan says sincerely.

Gilbert blinks bemusedly back at him. “Whatever for?” he says.

* * *

Ivan can very easily paint a picture of the world he lives in. He imagines a hall, with gilded sculptures and grandiose painting, every single detail intricate and precise, amounting into a grand crescendo that used to earn the St. Petersburg court the reputation of utmost opulence. 

Then, the hall lights will dim, and the stage lights will glow, soft and gentle, and the cellos will always begin first, low and humming: solid and strong is their sound despite the nature of their music being something as tender as coiled wire strings. They flow throughout the halls, like the slow crashing of waves, paving the way for the piano’s entrance, small leitmotifs sharp and tingling, a fairy’s bell and a pixie’s chime; and when they end, the violins and the violas can enter, the second violin complementing the first, the viola tying the sounds together with their mid-range.

The bow pulls; the string reverberates, down to its core, trembling reverently at the speed of sound and if Ivan rests his finger just above - just barely brushing - he can feel their jittery buzz. 

Someone will play the last note. The conductor will clutch the melody in his palms. There will be silence, but not exactly: the vibration still pulsing in the air, the last errant notes trying to escape. It is quiet, it is a moment of held breath - it will be oppressing, this silence that weighs down on the ear and against his lungs. Then applause spreads out, a furious forest fire that burns unstoppable through the halls while the conductor bows with pride.

And this is the moment, where, hidden somewhere among the starry-eyed audience, the professional photographer presses the shutter, and -

_Click._

For a split second, the world pauses, frozen eternally in a single image, and then moves on.

* * *

“So, where’ll we go to take pictures today,” Gilbert pesters, “to the Wall?”

Ivan frowns. “Don’t you already have enough pictures of it? You’re obsessed - we go there once every few weeks.”

“Hey man, no one else can take pictures of it except for people like you and me,” Gilbert argues, “I’m taking all the pictures that normal civilians will never get the chance to.”

“I am sick of that place; everyone’s always talking about it and whatever crazy escapades that happened or about some other West German guards provoking them from across. Can we leave the photo-taking to the Westerners for once?”

“Fine, fine, we can do it your way.” Gilbert raises both hands. “Calm down. Where do you want to go?”

Ivan ponders. “We can go camping -” Gilbert begins to groan, “- or, we can go somewhere further.”

“What, like out of Berlin?”

“Why not?” Ivan grins. “I got paid, _you_ just got paid; a train ticket is not that expensive.”

“Dude, I need to pay rent.”

“I can cover for you,” Ivan offers. “But you have to pay me back. Contrary to popular beliefs, I don’t get extra allowance from Pap.”

And this is how they find themselves standing outside the ticketing office, Ivan filling in the details with a pen that is mostly out of ink.

“This is amazing,” Gilbert marvels, peering over Ivan’s shoulder. “I never pecked you as the spontaneous type; you’re so conveniently available.”

“Careful; that sounds demeaning out of context.” Ivan hands the _Sputnik_ tickets to the conductor, who stamps it without even a second glance. Typical; that is why he is working at the train station and not promoted to better positions. “You’re always talking about going to Potsdam; why Potsdam?”

“Oh, you know what they say about Potsdam.” Gilbert flippantly waves a hand.

“History and spies?”

“Yeah, and either one makes _great_ photos.” He grins. “Plus, in the theme of my current collection, Potsdam is full of German tourists.”

“So what is this going to be, _Germans Visiting Their Imperial Roots?”_  Ivan snickers. “Not very in line with the state position.”

“Oh shut up,” says Gilbert, and proceeds to elbow him right under the ribs. Horrible man, really; Ivan should seriously reconsider his choice of dating partners.

He tells Gilbert that, and Gilbert snorts. Bump their elbows together. “You know you’ll miss me if I’m gone,” he teases, and it is almost surprising how true it is.

* * *

“Can we,” Gilbert begins, and then wets his lips, “do you mind if we head over to Glienicke Bridge first?”

The crowd squeezes past them. Ivan stops, and drags Gilbert towards the walls. “Don’t block other people’s paths.”

“Do you mind? It’s only a quick detour,” Gilbert continues quietly. “I just want to look at it. Take a photo or two.”

Ivan studies him. “You know it’s not accessible to civilians?”

“I’m not asking you to make an exception,” Gilbert tries, “I’m just going to… stand at the side. And look at it.”

“How very interesting,” Ivan mocks.

In the end, as per usual, Ivan concedes and there they are, standing at the sidewalk staring across at an empty, run-down bridge.

“Did you know this is where they exchanged spies?” Gilbert suddenly says.

“Yes.” Ivan shuffles. “Pap was there for it. It was… tense.”

“Interesting.”

“Pap told me that this place is under full Soviet control,” Ivan continues, eyeing Gilbert from the corner of his eyes. “But the DDR’s still reponsible for the upkeep, although, as you can see, they don’t really care.” He pauses. “They call it the Bridge of Unity.”

Gilbert snorts. “What fucking unity? They build two walls to partition this damned country, and they’re talking about unity?”

“Watch your words.”

“Sorry,” Gilbert suddenly deflates, shoulders slumped as he exhales deeply. “I just - I have family. Friends, and all. It’s frustrating.”

Ivan empathises; the border restrictions bother his family too, and Mama especially suffers from bouts of restlessness. “You can get them to apply to come visit you. It’s easier.”

“To a certain extent,” Gilbert replies wryly. He sighs, and begins fiddling with his camera. “Man, what’s this - we come here to have fun and I’m just being all, all angsty. Let’s just take the photo and we can go off laughing at German tourists.”

“I don’t mind standing here for a while more, if you want,” Ivan offers. “We have time.”

“We’re not going to make any difference just standing here.” Gilbert shakes his head. “Let’s just go.”

“Where do you want to visit then?” Gilbert shrugs. “The Sanssouci?”

“In its full historical and imperial glory, straight in line with party stance,” Gilbert jokes.

Ivan laughs.

* * *

“And that’s the Soviet building - they have a permanent post here,” Ivan points out, as they stroll on the streets back to the train station.

The sun dips low, but it's cooler days now, and the sky is dull and grey, cloudless and white-washed with pale lights that feel like an old dying lightbulb. Ivan stares up at the sky until he starts to feel dizzy; then he blinks out the stars in his eyes, and looks around the newer yet greyer Soviet infrastructure versus the historical relics of the old Prussian empire. 

“Do you need to go in and say hello, or something?” Gilbert asks, scuffing his shoes and kicking a stray rock. “I can wait here.”

“Contrary to common belief, I do not know  _every_ Soviet officer and soldiers stationed here.” Gilbert snickers. “Nor does my official duty consist of frequent socialising.”

Gilbert winks. “Yes, that will be a whore.”

“I will _end_ you.”

“Woah, woah, that sounds too exciting, aren’t we moving a little too fast?” Gilbert wriggles his eyebrows, and when Ivan stares back unimpressed, bursts into guffaws. “Shit, you should’ve seen your face!”

“I can imagine,” Ivan rebuts dryly. “So, where do you want to go now? A final stop at the bar, or…?”

“No, it’s fine. Let’s just walk.” They stroll down the cobbled pathways, Gilbert glancing around at the intricate architectural designs. His eyes are drawn upwards by a particularly large design, and it lingers on the skyline. “Dreary day today, isn’t it.” Ivan pauses and looks up. “But look: even though the sky’s grey, the light manages to bounce off the paleness of this place well. Don’t you think it makes the buildings look like it’s softly glowing?”

Ivan glances at him. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you?”

Gilbert chuckles humourlessly, wandering off to take a few choice photos. Ivan stands aside. He rubs his fingers together; the temperature is dropping by the minute, the seasons turning colder and drier at any moment. He leans back against an old building, feeling the cool roughness of the rocks against his back, just slightly damp to the touch (but that may be an illusion of the cold, the way it renders everything more unreal, a mimic of the chill of the sea). 

“Ivan!” Gilbert yells, and Ivan looks to see Gilbert waving next to a young lady and her beau. The lady is holding Gilbert’s camera. “Come over here - I’ve got someone to help us take a photo!”

Ivan takes his time walking over. “Sorry for any inconvenience,” he tells the couple, and the young lady smiles politely.

“It’s no problem - it’s a pleasure to help a professional in his own art. He even taught me a few photography tricks!”

“Did he?” Ivan eyes Gilbert shiftily. Gilbert grins. “Don’t be fooled; he’s not as acclaimed as he boasts.”

“Oh, that’s just unfair, photography is a very small and overlooked niche!” Gilbert protests, earning a giggle from the lady and a chuckle from her boyfriend. “Come on, Ivan, let’s stand here…!” He throws an arm around Ivan and Ivan, tentatively, curves his own arm around Gilbert. “Alright, Missy, now do your thing.”

Ivan smiles until his cheeks ache, and with a telling click of a shutter, it is done, a memory frozen in time on a fragile piece of film. And it’s a game of waiting now, waiting only to be soaked in more chemicals and carefully developed, before it'll be filed away, precious, into thick albums of yesteryears.

Gilbert detaches, taking his camera back and thanking the couple for their time. He trots back to Ivan, lips curved upwards and a looseness in his gait that Ivan hasn’t even noticed hadn’t been there until it is finally present.

“Time to go home?” Ivan asks.

“Yeah,” says Gilbert.


	5. Chapter 5

Gilbert is a blustering ball of excitement when he says, "My brother is coming to town."

"You have a brother?" Ivan goes through past mental archives. "Oh yes. You have a younger brother behind the Wall."

"Onkel brought him across when he was a kid," Gilbert explains, "Mutti refuses to go. There was this huge fight - all the neighbours know. In the end, Ludwig - my baby bro - he wanted to go over with Onkel because he's always been attached to him. We're all attached to Onkel Fritz because he's great."

"Sounds like a tight family."

"We are," Gilbert agrees. "I would have gone along too, but I, uh, I can't bear to leave Mutti all alone behind." He coughs awkwardly. "Apparently Luddy only decided to go because he thinks I'm going, and he kicked up a huge fuss and wanted to come back. But then the Wall came up in a few weeks and Onkel refuses to let him risk himself."

Ivan nods. "Dramatic."

"Well yeah, you know how things go these days." Gilbert shrugs. "Anyway! He's coming to town," he continues, "and I would like you to meet him."

The implication of Gilbert's statement takes several seconds to register; Ivan blinks. "Oh," he says very intelligently.

-

Ludwig is a tall, buff man with his hair slicked back and only a single black suitcase clutched firmly in his left hand. He walks with his shoulders straight and his back straighter ( _like a military man,_ Ivan's mind whispers, _or a poncy bore._ ) as he cuts surprisingly smoothly through the crowd. He doesn't smile as he shakes Ivan's hand. "Nice to meet you," he says, and his face is grave. Serious. He has laugh lines creeping at the corners of his eyes. Ivan doesn't know what to make of him.

"Nice to meet you too," he lies, "Gilbert's been telling me about you." Gilbert arches both eyebrows from where Ivan can spot him behind Ludwig's shoulder, but his mouth is twitching with bemusement.

Ludwig nods - somberly, of course - and glances back at Gilbert. "Gilbert's told me... things about you too."

"I hope he said something good," Ivan jokes.

"He did."

"Oh."

"Yes."

Now, Ivan is an awkward man, but this is getting too much for him to bear. He shoots another glare at Gilbert, who seems like he is perfectly enjoying himself watching them two fluster through their pleasantries. "I - have you had lunch?"

Ludwig shapes his mouth around a _yes_ when Gilbert finally blurts, "No, no - we had a late breakfast, but we won't mind coffee." Because obviously letting Ludwig dig himself into a deeper hole in terms of socialising is something no one will wish upon anyone, especially the guy you have taken to kiss _very intensely_ under the covers of shadows. "Right, Ludwig?"

Ludwig looks conflicted for a moment, but quickly schools his expression. "Right."

And now onwards to the family dinner. What fun. Ivan brings them to Julia's, because she is his favourite barista, and also because she owes him enough favours. Plus, she knows how to keep her mouth shut. No one keeps their mouth sealed tightly enough these days, what with the general tension and paranoia in the atmosphere that Ivan has learnt to read _instinctively,_ just in case he needs to dodge under a table when the tensions get too thick and the bullets start flying and the next day the papers will report the promotion of a new officer.

Julia, the smart lass, breaks out the good coffee for them. Ludwig doesn't look too impressed, but Ivan isn't too discouraged; after all, Ludwig hasn't tried the _usual_ fare yet. 

Ludwig coughs politely. Ivan sips his coffee. Gilbert is chattering on about his newest project that Ivan has heard a _thousand_ times, but he supposed that's as good an icebreaker as anything else. Ivan leans back, resisting the urge to rock the chair on its back-legs (something in him reminds that he has not done that for years, checked himself each time and never done that since he was eight, when the air is so thick with fear and it's like any expression of _joy_ will shatter the landscape) and instead focuses on the patrons around them-

(There are a pair of sisters at eight o'clock. A family two tables away from them. Even further down, shaded by the reflection of the harshest glare against the glass, sits a lady in brown with a younger man, clean shaven with a bright smile, and from the way their eyes flit and their fingers curl right before they touch, the restraint and the desire thinly contained in their bodies, Ivan is guessing that is an affair he is witnessing right there. He makes a mental note to gossip to Julia later.)

 _-and_ focuses his attention back on the Beilschmidt brothers: it's starting to veer into family territory. _Is Mutti alright - oh yes, she is, she misses you - how is Mina, how is Karl, how is Eppie, how is everything_ and  _everyone -_ personal, polite, boring, _important_ things that have to be asked. Important, because this is a family dissected by circumstances, not by will - and that, Ivan _knows,_ makes all the difference.

"But let's not talk about me," Gilbert is saying, "come on, you're finally back, and I even got my boy to meet you-" Ivan is not sure how that is being interpreted, although only those aggressively in denial will be able to ignore the double entendre, "- so let's talk about other things instead."

Ludwig nods. "Ivan," he begins, stiltedly, like he believes he is being overly familiar, "Gilbert says you worked as a guard?"

"Yes, it's more courtesy than anything," Ivan replies carefully, "officer's son, and such. There are certain expectations to fulfill."

"Gilbert says you are a good guard."

"I supposed." Ivan rolls his shoulders back. "It doesn't take much - for my position, at least. They don't often put me at the major checkpoints, or escape hotspots. I tend to play domestic traffic police."

"Gives him a lot of free time to slack off," Gilbert supplements, "although I believe that's more because he's, you know, an officer's _son_ than because of his position."

"I see."

"It's not as brutal as the West made it out to be," Ivan adds. When both brothers stare inscrutably at him, Ivan hunches his shoulders. "What? It's important to be aware of external perceptions," he defenses acidly, "you know we are trying to _promote_ the goodness of communism, not just _govern_ by communism _."_

"And that is the party line?" Ludwig replies dryly. "Will they dress up pretty and wear a tie in reaction to these _external perceptions_ then?"

Ivan barks a sharp laugh. "Of course. You know how much we love foreigners' money. Ask Gilbert - he's always taking pictures of Intershops, no matter how hard I try to stop him."

"I'm not - I'm taking photo of the streets."

"And _that_ is the Gilbert party line," he says sotto-voce to Ludwig, and feels a simmering sense of pride that he manages to get Ludwig's lips to twitch. Gilbert better be proud of Ivan's diplomatic skills, carefully cultivated through multiple dinners with important politicians and officers through the years. 

"Oh shut up, I am entitled to my artistic liberties." Gilbert's lips twitch into a moue. "But come on, guys, you know me: the more I'm not allowed to do something, the more I want to do it."

"I do remember our childhood."

Gilbert spreads out both arms self-satisfactorily. "Exactly."

"You shouldn't sound so proud of yourself," Ludwig chides, but there is no heat in the reproach. Gilbert grins wider.

And there - there is the moment that Ivan wishes to capture if he is a better artist, a better writer, a photographer with a camera ready at the moment: two brothers sitting at a table, body angled to mirror as they smile at each other, one grinning and one barely resisting a smile; one solid and one sharp, lines and edges, two men with so much history and so much ties between them, a bond tied by blood and faded memories and everything inbetween, brothers through and true.

Then they shift, and the moment shatters, and Ivan extends a hand to lift his coffee cup to his lips. He takes a sip. "So, Ludwig, what about you? What do you do?"

The conversation flows. The white noise of the crowd laps and ebbs, like waves, tides shifting under the moon's gravitational pull, and it sweeps around Ivan as Ludwig answers. "I worked as a translator for the American embassy for a while..."

-

They are at the checkpoint, and Gilbert hugs Ludwig like he wishes never to let go. Ludwig squeezes Gilbert's shoulders once, twice, and both of them break apart with the same grimness the same way Ivan has seen little kids display just as they rip off the plaster from their knees.

Three days come and three days gone, just like that. What does family matters, in the end, in the grand scheme of things? Ivan wonders. Ivan doesn't think too hard. Ivan doesn't _want_ to think too hard, and shifts his weight, nodding when he recognises some of the guards on duty.

Ludwig catches his eye and nods firmly; a quick, efficient thing that spares no sloppiness or exaggeration that may cheapen the gesture. "You," Ludwig begins, and stops. "You are a good man," he finally decides, and Ivan's words catch in his throat.

There is a tense moment of waiting, the hint of "But..." hanging heavily in the air. Yet the words never came, and Ludwig flits his gaze back towards Gilbert. "Look after yourself," he finally says, and with a final look shared between them that Ivan cannot decipher, slips into the building.

Gilbert remains staring for a long time afterwards. Ivan doesn't interrupt, doesn't even move because any big gestures will only distract, and Ivan knows this is the time when Gilbert needs to be left alone to his thoughts and his melancholy for as long as he demands.

"So," Gilbert finally breaks the silence, "I guess that's goodbye."

"You'll be seeing him again."

"In how long?" Gilbert retorts wryly. He shakes his head. "Come on, let's go."

"Are you sure?"

A shrug. "What else can I do?" Gilbert counters, "he's already left." He knocks their elbows together. "Anyway, I took some photos with the family, so I better get to work and develop them. Pretty sure Mutti wants to hang _those_ up."

Ivan isn't going to contradict Gilbert's coping mechanism; he sees the logic in it, and he respects it for what it is, and so he lets Gilbert chatter at him while they walk off down the streets, the sky dimming above them in shades of grey and white and the hint of yellow in the distance as the chill sinks in their bones.  


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ridiculously short, but I barely have time to write these days, although the reasons for such is much less tiring and way more enjoyable.

"Don’t you ever work?" Gilbert exclaims, one day. “You’re always following me around for my jobs – which, don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed your company, but – but you’re also a guard.”

“I do appear to have a lot of leisure time, don’t I?” Ivan agrees. “But I do have more work apart from what the common public usually assumes a guard does.”

“Like what?”

“Like, apart from patrols and guarding checkpoints or rooms, there is a lot of administrative work and meetings, especially for my situation.” Namely, being the officer’s son _and_ having men under his charge. “But mostly, I guard. It’s not easy, you know.”

“What, guarding?”

“Yes.” Gilbert does not look convinced. “It is not as the movies show it: there is a lot of mental effort necessary to guard effectively.” A pause, and Ivan suddenly fancies an idea that he should be _tried_ for, for having even fathomed it in the first place. Then again, the chilly weather is making everyone tired and careless and Ivan has finally decided to trust more and meet Gilbert halfway.

"Can you speak Russian?" he blurts.

Gilbert shrugs. "Oh, only the bare minimum. I can't even read Cyrillic well."

Considering that German remains the working language amongst the bureaucracy in the area, with the use of Russian being reserved to those that work within the Soviet office, Ivan figures that his idea is less of a risk than it could have been.

“Actually,” he begins, “why not you shadow me for a day?”

“What,” says Gilbert.

* * *

Sneaking a spare uniform is easier than expected, and mostly consist of awkwardly asking Dima for _his_ spare (funnily enough, two of the closest people that Ivan knows and is _not_ his family happens to be of similar builds. If their friendship is not so blatantly platonic (and also that they know each other for _so long_ that imagining Dima in any other context feels too much like incest), Ivan would wonder if he has a _type_.) and Dima giving him a raised eyebrow and a pat on the back, but shuts up when Ivan emphasises, _no questions._

It is a weird emotion in his chest that can be described as fuzzy or as confused when Gilbert steps out of the lavatory in uniform.

“You look…” Ivan can’t quite put it in words. “Fine.”

Gilbert quirks both eyebrows. “Convincing?”

“Good enough.” Ivan adjusts the cap. “There, you’ll be fine.” He steps back. There is something about Gilbert and his physique that makes him look more confident when dressed snug in uniform than his usual civilian clothing; Ivan does not know why he feels so unnerved. “Stay a step behind me, and do not speak. Salute when I nod.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

“And _don’t_ call me captain,” Ivan reminds, “call me _sir.”_

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Gilbert.”

Gilbert snorts.

Sneaking Gilbert onto compound and down the corridors is easier than expected, with no one even giving a second glance to the unknown face shadowing Ivan. Gilbert is prim and proper and the absolute epitome of calm, even when Ivan is held up when one of the officers want to speak to him to ask him about his father’s schedule. Just to be mean, Ivan decides to pick up a shift immediately without allowing Gilbert a break to adapt, and is assigned the task of keeping watch of the corridor outside the meeting room. Ivan picks Dima and the newest recruit under his charge – a pretty green-eyed boy whose name repeatedly slips his mind – and rotates the three of them at the door outside the meeting room while he slips off to handle the paperwork. The greatest surprise, he discovers, is to find that Gilbert remains professional and silent at the end of the meeting upon his dismissal, ignoring both Dima’s knowing looks and the new boy’s mistaken but well-meaning small talk (Dima himself assures Ivan that he will play mentor and correct the boy’s mistakes before he, you know, get into actual trouble when he gets caught for “slacking off” on the job).

All these professionalism, however, collapses the moment they reach the showers and are allowed a moment of reprise.

“That is,” Gilbert exclaims, draping himself over the bench, “fucking tiring.”

“Please maintain decorum in case anyone steps in.” Ivan leans against the wall. “Cover story is that _I_ forgot something, and we are only popping in to get it.”

“Right.” Gilbert straightens up. “So, that’s all you do all day? Stand around being quiet?”

“We also have to watch out for any suspicious activities,” Ivan reminds, “were you paying attention? How many men walked past the meeting room?”

Gilbert blinks. “I wasn’t counting.”

“You don’t have to,” Ivan explains, “but you should subconsciously pay attention to every one of them. I had Roman walk past at least five times; did you notice the same man loitering outside of the room? The new boy, despite his unprofessionalism, noticed – just as he was trained to.

“It’s sometimes very instinctual: we pick up on irregularities and deviations from the norm, and then act accordingly. Suspicious people tend to be subtle, so you have to be sharp.”

Gilbert nods slowly. “Is that why you are allowed so much leisure time? To recover for later concentration?”

“Most times,” Ivan admits, “I assign those tired to do simple filing. Arranging documents in chronological or alphabetical order, or photocopying documents.”

“Ah.”

“The truth is,” Ivan continues, “I tend to work the night shift.”

There is a long pause. “So that means, today is completely _pointless_?”

“No,” Ivan protests slowly, “you did learn more about what it is like to work as a guard.”

“But it is not _constructive_ towards answering my question.”

“No,” Ivan confesses. “Not exactly.”

“You have a lot of leisure time because you work the night shift, and is free in the day.”

“And because I am something of an insomniac,” Ivan elaborates, “I can’t sleep very well in the day.”

Gilbert nods. “So today is just you trying to get me into uniform?”

“That’s not-“

“Like playing dress-up with your doll,” Gilbert continues, but when Ivan finally meets his eyes, Gilbert’s eyes are glittering with curiosity. “I’m learning more about you _everyday.”_

“Gilbert,” Ivan replies carefully, “that is _Dima’s_ uniform.”

Gilbert arches both eyebrows. “Is there something you are not telling me?” He smirks, and Ivan wants to die. “ _Ooh._ What happened to trust –“

The sudden realisation of the sound of footsteps has Ivan lurching forward to slap a palm over Gilbert’s mouth. Gilbert _bites_ him; the plunge of the room into silence highlights the quiet chattering of whoever it is walking the corridor. Slowly, the noise fades away into the distance, and with a startle, Ivan realises that his hands are still on Gilbert’s lips.

Ivan makes to recoil, but Gilbert snatches onto his wrist before Ivan can move. A silence; Ivan can feel the warm huff of Gilbert’s exhale on the side of his hand, the push of the breath against skin and the sudden awareness of how sweaty his palm is. Then, with his other hand, Gilbert reaches up to cup the back of Ivan’s neck, and presses him down, inch by inch, until Ivan’s own breath is warm and damp on the back of his hand.

(And then Gilbert kisses him.)

And then Gilbert leans in and chastely kisses him from the other side of his hand, kisses his palm soft and sweet like a mother’s fond kiss, before retracting all at once, the heat dissipating without another moment’s notice. Ivan blinks. “Next time,” says Gilbert, edging himself up and away to a distance more respectable, “it’s your turn.”

Ivan smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS

“ _Vanya,_ ” Dima coos, “aw, Vanya.”

“Dima, you piece of shit, I outrank you,” Ivan retorts, digging through the bag. “You know we may get court-martialled for being seen endorsing ‘non-state celebrations’? New Year’s, not _Christmas._ ”

“Lies. It’s nineteen-seventy-eight. They don’t do that anymore.”

“Yeah,” Roman chirps, adjusting the white beard hanging off his chin, “and this is Berlin - you can’t stop us Germans from celebrating Christmas.”

“Which do you think is more important to the state: your German nationalism or the bloc’s socialist interest? Off with your head, you.” Ivan finally digs out a red jacket. “Ah, this may fit me.”

Dima snorts. “I didn’t know that we have spare jackets made in the size of _giant._ ”

“I didn’t know they have a hat made for hair as wild as yours.” Just to punctuate the point, Ivan snatches off Dima’s hat, ignoring his protest, and places the hat on his own head. For good measure, he tugs at Roman’s beard too. “Be careful of the kids pulling it off.”

“ _You’re_ the kid,” Roman grunts, stroking the beard as though caressing a hurt. Ivan ignores him.

The snow is not as heavy as it was back home, Ivan feels, but the winds are equally bitter. Goga is already waiting for him with a bag of candies. Ivan would rather be doing this with Dima, considering that in the end, he _is_ something of Ivan’s best friend and also has one hell of a sense of humour. Instead, he is patrolling with Roman and Goga (the _other_ Goga, short for Egor instead of Georgiy), and are probably going to end up at a pub before four, drinking watered-down beer.

“Where’s Sasha?” Ivan says by way of greeting.

“Not Sasha,” Sasha grunts, “Alex.”

“Nice beard you have, Sasha,” says Goga.

“Fuck off.”

“Aww, Sasha, don’t say that! You’ll shock your poor grandma’s heart,” Ivan teases, eyes widened in mock-affront, and got a dirty glare for his trouble.

They keep away from the city centre because that raises the chances of meeting officers that are less of a good sport, and distributes sweets to the kids in the outskirts. It takes a few warming-up, considering that none of them bothered changing out of military boots and pants, but children are children and before long they are scampering over to hang off “Papa Noël” (this said with a smirk and an eyebrow wiggle, because seeing grumpy Sasha – sorry, _Alex_ – being all gentle and cooing at the kids is simply hilarious, whatever the context) or tug at his beard.

(Laughing. Ivan mocks, over his shoulders, “I _warned_ you.”

“Stop laughing, you.”

“It’s _sir_ , not _you._ ”

“You smug bas-”

“Language!” Goga exclaims, “there are children here.”)  

They are almost close to finishing their sack of sweets when someone sounding very familiar asks, “Do I get a sweet too?”

Turns, and it’s Gilbert, grinning as he wipes the lens of his camera. “Take a good photograph of this, and you’ll get one.”

“What, I’m allowed to take photos of this?” Gilbert tugs away the handkerchief and fumbles. “No need to sneak photographs, or seek permissions, or-“

“Why _can’t_ you take photos?” Goga adds, smiling amusedly.

“This doesn’t look like official activity.”

“Then don’t take pictures of _our_ faces,” Sasha concludes gravelly, and subsequently lurches alarmingly as one of the younger girls pulls hard at his beard.

Ivan gives a helpless shrug. “It’s not often that everyone’s in a good mood. You might as well give us something to remember it by.”

Gilbert scrutinises Ivan for a moment too long; then, slowly, a smile spreads over his face that looks too sentimental for Ivan to interpret. “Sure,” he says, “I’ll make you photocopies.”

* * *

Then, later, with his eyes shining and his body buzzing with excitement:

“Go with me to Marx-Engels-Platz,” says Gilbert, and Ivan finally discovers the true purpose of Gilbert’s appearance, “it’ll be fun, especially since today is Christmas Eve. Everyone not at home will be there.”

“My shift still has an hour to go,” Ivan reminds.

“I can wait.”

“I have a drink with Dima and the boys after.”

Gilbert seems flustered with frustration. “Look, why not you just tell me _no_ straight away.”

Goga catcalls. “Aw, just go, Vanya.”

“It’s _sir_ to you _._ ”

“Just go, sir,” Goga corrects smoothly. “We’ll inform wife number one that dearest Vanya is busy with wife number two, so you can hurry along.”

“Wait, why am I the mistress?” Gilbert interjects.

Ivan ignores both of them. “Sasha,” he says instead, “where are we drinking?”

Sasha is so startled by the sudden attention that he forgets to correct the name. “At old man Han’s.”

“It’s a few streets away from Marx-Engels-Platz,” Ivan confirms. He looks back at Gilbert. “You can find me after. I promise not to drink too much and finish by five.”

Gilbert only stares. “Sometimes,” he finally says, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Sorry, duty calls.” A quirk of the lips, to signify a joke. “You know I have to placate the first wife before running off into the arms of the mistress.”

In hindsight, Ivan should have known that the bravado that his fellow guards invoke in him will only incur an exasperated (but also embarrassed, his brain reminds, pleased) and very painful kick in the shins.

* * *

There are many soldiers, officers, and guards in uniform as well, both men and women, and Ivan feels (for the first time in a _long_ while) surprisingly in place despite being in uniform.

“I’m not drunk,” Ivan assures as Gilbert spots him. Gilbert subsequently passes him a cup of _glühwein,_ and there is a heart-stopping moment when the cup almost topples because the fact that both of them are wearing mittens doesn’t bode well in regard to having good grip _._ “Although I am curious: is it possible to get drunk off mulled wine?”

Gilbert stares dubiously at his cup. “I hope not. I already had five cups while waiting for you.”

“Worried that I won’t show up?”

“Yes. No, I – yes, actually.” Gilbert laughs mirthlessly. “It’s foolish, simple paranoia; you have never broken any promise to me.”

Ivan ponders over the reply. “I supposed spending Christmas alone is as horrible as it feels to spend New Year’s alone,” Ivan begins, and Gilbert’s startled but affectionate smile is enough of an answer for Ivan to confirm the reason for Gilbert’s uncharacteristic jitteriness. “When I was young, Pap used to be constantly absent. Mama tries her best, but New Year’s Day or, or birthday celebrations are not the same when not everyone in the family is there.”

“Yeah.” Gilbert stares absently at the tip of the Christmas tree sticking out from above the stalls. “But this year, I have you.” He stands, abrupt, and knocks their elbows together. The wine splashes all over his right mitten; Ivan takes it off and tosses it into the nearby bin. Gilbert does not apologise. “Come on, let’s see what they have around here.”

Most of the stalls are already starting to close, considering that it is Christmas Eve - most people have families to spend the day with. Gilbert, whose family is in the West, and Ivan, whose family does not celebrate Christmas, have each other to spend the night with, and it is almost ironic when they find themselves standing under the Christmas tree, people strewing away from them, feeling like they are separated from the rest of the world doing everything different from everyone else.

Ivan brushes his bare fingers against the fur of Gilbert’s mittens; Gilbert doesn’t notice. Gilbert is watching the Christmas tree, watching the lights and the decorations and the star perched on the top, like a beacon against a darkening sky, the hurried arrival of sunset, and Ivan wonders if Gilbert is tempted to take a photo right this instance, capture this moment so lonely and yet not, and it is with a sudden startle that Ivan realises that this may well be the first year that Gilbert spends his Christmas with someone else.

“Gilbert,” he says, whispers, a little too tenderly, and Gilbert inclines his head, but does not turn to stare at him.

And Ivan thinks, _I want to kiss him,_ but he also thinks, _I am in uniform, in_ public, _under open scrutiny, and I_ can’t.

(Then he remembers, Gilbert smirking up at him, whispering, _next time, it’s your turn.)_

“Gilbert,” he repeats, and lifts the edge of Gilbert’s scarf to press a soft kiss against it before letting it fall. When he focuses on Gilbert’s expression again, there is a stillness in his body that feels like a breath caught and a million thoughts sprinting.

Gilbert’s lips part; then it closes, before parting again, the croak of the throat that symbolises multiple failed attempts at words. Then, as though his mind made up, Gilbert wets his lips and lifts up his own scarf to press a kiss at the very tip where Ivan has kissed it.

“Merry Christmas,” Ivan mutters.

“Merry Christmas,” Gilbert echoes, and closes his eyes, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploaded these late, because I do not have stable wifi until a few days after Christmas. Have fun stuffing yourself with horrifyingly unhealthy snacks, everyone


	8. PART TWO: red skies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drumrolls, please, the _action_ plot is beginning now, although the _romance_ aspect feels more like a buffer here. I have already dropped hints here and there – guess, guess, come on, guess where the plot is heading. Warning for violence.
> 
> P.S. I am HORRIFIED because this is published in 25 Feb on tumblr and Chapter 9 is halfway complete and I DIDN'T REALISE I FORGOT TO CROSS-POST

Mama paints a pretty picture, sitting like she is posing for a portrait on the armchair beside the window, the light dancing softly across her features and down the smoothness of her skirts, her lips painted deep red and her eyes droopy and beseeching. She lifts her cup to her lips and sips. “Vanya,” she calls, soft and dainty and everything she is not, “will you tell your father to come home early for dinner tonight?”

It is not a question as much as it is an order. “You men,” she continues, “always busy with work, work, work; do you not care for your family back home? Tell him to come home, and you too – you have lost weight, Vanya. Perhaps your father gives you too much work. I will talk to him.”

“It’s alright, Mama.”

“It is not,” says Mama, but they both knows that Mama will not speak to Pap; Pap will see for himself later during the dinner. “But if you insist.”  


“I do, Mama,” says Ivan, and Mama nods, turning back to the window.  


(The beauty she wears is as traditional as the woman she is, her values and her domesticity, although her iron-rod _will_ – the strength of her character is beyond tradition, beyond men and beyond women, a survivor that is so like the rose that all their family friends believe her a symbol of: pretty, but with thorns, blooming red, rich and vibrant even as she ages, a symbol of everything Ivan admires.  


Ivan wonders if her conservative nature extends to him. He wonders that, were the day to come when she learns about his, his _affection_ towards Gilbert – he wonders how she would react. He wonders how _Pap_ would react. The parents that Ivan knows and loves, his Pap and his Mama(no, not _Major Braginsky Mikhail Sergeyevich_ and _Braginskaya Tatiana Pavlovna,_ but _Pap_ and _Mama_ ) will not understand, and mayhap even try to change his mind, but they will try – try their very best to accept their son’s decisions.  


And yet, his perspective is possibly biased, and likely very skewed, as Cousin Ira likes to chide him about. They are _his_ parents, she says, and as their only child, they may treat him better. It is not the same with everyone else. Cousin Natasha, meanwhile, disagrees, and comments that they treat _her_ well too, and gives her extra sweets when they catch her staring at the kitchen too often – to which, Cousin Ira retorts that it is because Natasha is sweet and pretty and obviously very young, and which adult is callous enough not to spoil a child once in a while?  


In the words of others who are not his family, Ivan admits that there are men who will call his father hard, and his mother grave. But Ivan knows that in the end, despite what everyone else says and what his parents choose to reveal to the rest of the world about themselves – that, ultimately, above all their flaws, his father is also a good leader, and his mother a good wife: a family man, a pious guardian; a staunch loyalist, a hopeful believer. A strong person, both of them, at their core, and values may clash and personalities even more so, but they love their families so very much that they would give their souls to protect the nuclear hub that is them and him.)  


The wind blows and ruffles the wisps of Mama’s hair, stirs the soft lace of her scarf, the trembles deceptively delicate. Ivan bows, and exits the room.  


-  


_An interlude: Gilbert, Ivan, a lonely street stretching into the dark, the falling of first snow through the gentle hush of the cold night._  


_“Aren’t you going to take a picture?” Ivan asks._  


_Gilbert shakes his head. “A moment like this,” he answers quietly, “is not something that can be captured in a single picture.” Then he adds, “It’s too precious.”_  


_“It’s something that one has to experience themselves?”_  


_“Yeah.” He closes his eyes, and the snowflakes rest on his lashes before eventually dripping down his waterline. In the dim light, it looks like he’s crying._  


_Ivan watches him for too long before he catches himself. “Sometimes,” he admits, “I don’t know you at all.”_  


_“I know,” says Gilbert, “me too.”_  


-  


He ignores the chill biting against his skin, and as per Mama’s instructions, knocks on Pap’s door. _Sir,_ and “Come in,” and Ivan finds himself closing the door behind him.  


“Mikhail Sergeyevich.” Ivan salutes. Then, a pause. “Good afternoon, Pap.”  


“Decorum at the office.”  


“Yes, sir.” Ivan salutes again. “Mama says that we are both to come home for dinner.”  


Pap grunts. “There is no reasoning with that woman,” he complains, pushing a document across the table. “Mielke’s office sent over these recently. Now, what do you know about atomic spies?”  


“They are our national heroes.”  


“Nice try, but you know that is not the answer I am looking for.” He feels Pap’s stare on him as he flips through the pages as gingerly as can be managed. “Our spies have always been more competent than the West’s, but what is the likelihood that they are doing the same to us as we did to them?”  


_What can they steal,_ Ivan thinks incredulously, and almost expresses his thoughts, except he does not want to be court-martialed for treason. “Undoubtedly. Berlin is a hotspot for spies and agents.”  


“Berlin – Germany, in general, but especially Berlin – is more than that: it’s a symbol of our battle against the capitalists,” Pap reminds, “there is _strategic importance_ in these lands.”  


“Pap –”  


“Sir.” Pap’s unflinching stare can melt stones. “Call me sir.”  


“Sir. Berlin’s strategic defences will not be breached by external forces. As you said, it’s symbolic: we use our troops to quash local traitors much more than external threats.”  


“But it remains that the public is not fully loyal,” Pap insists, and suddenly things become clearer. He snaps the document shut. “Oftentimes, we have to look bigger: it’s not just about Germany, or even the party and its new leader. It’s about the future.”  


“More surveillance and parades will be conducted to reassure the public,” Ivan replies carefully, “whenever you give the order, sir.”  


“We’ll wait for the Stasi to act first,” Pap decides after a pause. “We wait for Polkovnik Lev Petrovich’s command. Meanwhile, step up security for our men, and _watch_ the Germans.”  


“I thought we trust each other now?”  


Pap snorts. “Trust is for fools. Now go,” he dismisses, “you have a job to do.”  


Ivan salutes. He marches towards the door, and after a thought, pauses. “Pap, do not forget dinner.”  


“Oh I’m busy – you tell your _Mama_ –” Ivan blinks expectantly. Pap thins his lips. “Never mind, tell her I will be there.”  


“Yes, sir.”  


“Now _go._ ”  


-  


Dima doesn’t look quite pleased when Ivan orders greater shadowing of East German guards during their duties, and even more disgruntled when he hears that security has to step up for their compounds despite not having a pay raise. Nonetheless, he knows Ivan long enough to understand that Ivan’s orders are always reasonable (if not punctuated with grunts and grumbles to signal Ivan’s discontent towards the higher-up’s orders), although he also knows Ivan for _too_ long that he does this strange wriggling thing with his eyebrows that suggests that he will squeeze information out of Ivan as soon as possible.  


Ivan does his shift and his paperwork, and scans through the documents and notes for potential suspects (“Recruitment of East German spies – motivation not monetary, suspects unconfirmed” and “organised spy networks: discovered from tip-off. Do not expose. Continue observation.”) before picking out a few of those that he knows are one misstep away from being brought in for questioning to distribute their description and pictures to his guards to watch out for. Ivan’s duty is… not to apprehend suspects, but rather to defend Russian personnel, and that, he believes, includes keeping potential criminals as far away as possible from those under his charge.  


He reaches the end of the paperwork. Stacks them up, lifts them to slide into the drawer, when a small, folded piece falls out.  


He hasn’t seen this. Ivan picks it up.  


“Oh,” he mutters, and his hand doesn’t shake.  


Staring up at him, is a list of certain very familiar names in his acquaintance:  


_Frank_ _König._ Julia’s co-worker, the jolly baker with the crooked nose.  
_Rosa Schmitz._ Dima’s paramour after three years of courtship. He’s thinking of proposing to her.  
_Manfred Braun._ The old man living two blocks down from him that waves hello every time Ivan passes below his balcony.  
_Helga Gras._ Gilbert’s neighbour, the sweet old lady who sometimes feeds them plates of freshly-baked cookies.

And then, freshly struck out: _Irina Arlovskaya,_ she, with her wide smile and knack for making the most savoury sweets – Ira, his cousin.

His father can be a hard man sometimes. Ivan stands up; stuffs the note in his pocket, and slowly, slowly, he leaves. 

-

_“Strange,” Gilbert mutters, adjusting his cufflinks again. “These don’t feel right.”_  


_Ivan blinks. “How so?”_  


_“It just feels…” Gilbert fumbles. “Weird. Different. Like something’s switched.”_  


_Ivan_ suspects, _but no. Gilbert hasn’t done anything to warrant attention, and Pap hasn’t said anything. He dismisses his speculations and shrugs instead. “Perhaps it is because it’s been too long since you wore them.”_

_“No, it’s not the cufflinks, it’s the shirt.” Gilbert tugs a final time. “But whatever. I can stand a little discomfort.”_  


_For the rest of the night at the exhibition, Gilbert doesn’t complain, and his smiles remain wolfish and the look in his eyes cheeky, and Ivan doesn’t press. It’s how they always are: don’t ask, don’t think, don’t speak. Keep the peace. Ivan wonders when he’s started mimicking his parents in their ways._  


-  


He goes to Julia first, because it’s the easiest of the lot. Julia is a girl who’s giddy but smart, and when Ivan hovers she doesn’t slip off for a toilet break, but rather slips into the kitchen to prepare a cup of coffee with Ivan’s beans.  


“Here’s your drink,” she says, lowering the cup, and only flinches slightly when Ivan grabs her wrist.  


“I don’t want you to keep the beans in the kitchen anymore,” he says, “steal it.”  


“When the gift is given away, the giver doesn’t get to make any decisions about it anymore.”  


“Let me ask you something,” Ivan continues, “have you been lying to me?”  


“No! Why would I –”  


“Then watch your friend. Watch your good man – Frank, was it? Watch him, and don’t let him know you’re watching. Then you talk to me, and tell me whether you will listen.” He lets go, and Julia recoils as though burnt. She nibbles her lips, making aborted motions to rub at her wrist, and then slips off into the back without a second glance back.  


One of the patrons shakes his papers straight to read it better. Another, by the restroom, clinks his spoon against the rim of the cup, then rests his hand on the spotless table, so clean that there is not a single crumb in sight. He taps impatiently, as though waiting for someone.  


Ivan finishes his coffee. He leaves just as a group of university students crowd into the café, and takes more turns than he usually does – just a healthy dose of paranoia, he thinks – before making his way down his usual paths.  


He drops by Gilbert’s apartment, and pretends to be surprised when Mdm Gras pops her head out to inform him that Gilbert’s out. Accepts her pastries, only to spit it out on a handkerchief when he exits the building and is safely on a taxi.  


The taxi driver rudely tells him off for it, but Ivan stares him down. He wraps the remains properly for the scientists to determine its ingredients make-up, but Ivan knows. Ivan can taste it, now that he’s looking out for it: the butter is too thick when there should be a food shortage.  


Manfred, he doesn’t bother warning or verifying.

Rosa Schmidt, however, is a difficult one. Ivan doesn’t like to play the villain, nor does he like to suspect his _best_ friend as a potential conspirator. He doesn’t say anything, but nevertheless, he will watch them; maybe contact his German counterpart to see whether their department can offer some help. He’s not touching this one.

Ira – he hesitates. Then he considers his father, and Pap’s objective, and bites the bullet.  


-  


_Ivan doesn’t touch, but he knows that anyone who looks in will see the line of his body curving towards Gilbert. He knows Gilbert knows this too, because Gilbert looks at him with that bitter, half-smile that he sometimes let slip, and says, “We’re alone now. Why are you so scared?” Gilbert reaches out to ruffle Ivan’s hair; Ivan barely manages to not duck. “You need to learn to let your guard down.”_  


_“I don’t – it’s not that easy,” Ivan admits, “I remember what is expected of me at all times. It’s imbued into my core and etched into my brain.”_  


_Gilbert laughs. “You’re a strange man,” he comments, “dutiful.” His face softens. “Reminds me of my brother.”_  


_Ivan looks pointedly out of the window. The skies are grey, the way they always are, thin layers of clouds like cotton peeled repeatedly into half floats across the sky, a grey blanket, an obstructing mist, covering the murky sky with more gloom. “Like miasma,” he mutters, and Gilbert startles._

_“That’s… a way of putting it,” he allows, glancing up at the sky too. “Dreary.”_

_“Suits today,” Ivan agrees. He stares at his own hands, now. Just earlier that morning, Pap’s made him shoot one of his men – a spy, they have all realised too late, and after figuring out the extent of what is betrayed, dispensed the necessary punishment. “Gilbert.”_

_“Hmm?”_

_Ivan hasn’t felt anything when he killed the traitor, and hasn’t felt anything later, too – and that, that’s what shocked him the most. “Do you think I’m a monster?”_

_“Wha - what’s bring this on?”_

_“I was thinking,” Ivan says, “about this. About Berlin. I_ am _one of the bad guys, aren’t I?”_

_“Hey now –”_

_“No, don’t say a thing.” Ivan tilts his head back. “Just – let me think. Leave me alone, just for a little while.”_

-

“I don’t believe they let _you_ see me,” Ira exclaims when she sees Ivan. Her eyes are sunken and dark-ringed. “Although I see they don’t trust you well enough to send you in alone.”

That is true: the guards flanking him are not just to provide him support when necessary, but also to ensure that Ivan doesn’t help Ira escape in a sudden burst of familial sympathy. “Should you be talking so much right now?”

“What can I say?” Ira shrugs. “They’ve been trying to make me talk for the past _week._ Now I’m giving them what they want, and you’re telling me to shut up.”

“Not when you are not talking about anything important.” Ivan gestures at the guards to open the gate. He takes a slow step in, and another, until he is right infront of Ira. Then, calmly, he slaps her.

Ira’s head whips harshly to the right; she spits. Ivan bends forward. “Dear cousin, look at me.” He waits as she turns. “Unlike you, I know my responsibility, and I won’t let _anything_ shake me from what is important. You _fool,_ did you sympathise with the traitors?”

“I didn’t do anything against my conscience.”

“You really are a fool,” says Ivan, straightening up. “There are principles that can bend, and there are principles that must never budge, and then there is you, who mixed up the two.” He walks out of the door. Turning to face her, he takes stock of how much she has changed under interrogation, from the limp hair to the stiff slope of her shoulders and the tired tension frozen in her body. “If there is any sense of duty left in you, you will learn to cooperate.”

The door closes with finality.

-

_“What if, one day, one of us betray the other?”_

_“Well, hope one day wouldn’t come.” A snort. “But if it happens – then I hope I won’t blame you, nor you me. It’ll be nice to believe that we all have our reasons.”_

-

Ivan wants to find Gilbert, but he doesn’t, because he knows that if they meet now, Ivan won’t be able to stop the paranoia from creeping, won’t be able to stop himself from catching every single tell that may mean something or nothing, and Ivan, he –

He just wants to live another day believing that the world is as simple as it never was, that trust is the norm and not the exception, that he will never have cause to suspect Gilbert, and he lives happily ever after, the end. He wants to be normal, to be unsuspecting, to be honest to _believe_ without question, and he can’t do that as long as his first instincts towards meeting someone not _family,_ no matter how long their acquaintanceship, is to look for their weaknesses. No, as long as Ivan _cannot_ trust, he will never be normal.

And the world will continue spinning and he will continue being fucked up and Gilbert will never know him truly.

(And Ivan is most surprised to find that he is ok with that.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6000+ words, yall

It’s about consequences, he later remembers.

-

It is only when he is searching for Gilbert that he realises that doesn’t know where Gilbert is when not with him, and the feeling is something like vertigo Ivan scans the streets, wondering where to find him.

He hasn’t seen Gilbert in a while. Ever since Christmas, actually. Gilbert has always been the one to find him, and even though Ivan knows where Gilbert lives, he has never actively sought Gilbert out at his house.

It must come as a shock on both ends, then, when Gilbert almost stumbles over Ivan when Gilbert returns in the late evening, when the sunset is long past and the moon is bright in the sky.

Ivan raises his bottle of cheap vodka. Gilbert gapes.

“You’re…” Gilbert begins, “you’re waiting for me to come home?”

Ivan smiles sardonically.

“Ok,” Gilbert continues slowly, “ok, uh, do you need help getting up?”

Ivan wobbles onto his feet, a hand on the railing as he ascends the stairs, Gilbert hovering behind him. “I’m not drunk,” he says, then amends, “yet.”

“Let’s try to keep it that way,” Gilbert mutters, edging past him to unlock the door, “jeez. What the heck are you thinking?”

“But I’m trying to get drunk,” Ivan replies, feeling slow and calm, his head warm but his fingers cold. It’s a strange feeling, this tipsy blend of hot and cold that threatens to overwhelm yet only lurk at the edges, because Ivan is nothing but a heavy drinker who can drink his entire squad under the table.

“Why would you do that?” Gilbert holds the door open. Ivan walks in, gait steadier by every step. “What brought this on?”

“I don’t know,” says Ivan, because he truly doesn’t know whether he can tell Gilbert what he knows. Then he remembers that that is not the point of Gilbert’s question. “Gilbert, have you ever kept a secret?”

“What? Uh, yes?” He turns, locking the door with a deft flick of the wrist. Switches on the floor lamp. “I mean, everyone does, right?”

“Yes, that’s not what I was going to ask. Sorry, I don’t know why I ask that.” Ivan sits on the single chair, resting the bottle on the table. “Where were you today? You’ve never told me what you do during your days.”

“You never asked,” Gilbert shoots back. He clears his throat. “I’m working.”

“Working?”

“Paperwork at the office today,” Gilbert confirms, “it’s dull.”

“Ah yes, I know paperwork. I do a lot of paperwork.”

“Yeah.” Gilbert settles cautiously on the bed. “Why do you-”

“Gilbert, if I ask you to choose between me and your family, who would you choose?”

The pause is significant but given. Ivan watches Gilbert flinch. Worries his lips. Eyes darting from Ivan to the plain walls of his apartment. “I don’t-”

“It’s fine,” Ivan cuts Gilbert off again. Gilbert swallows heavily. “Truly. Sorry for unloading on you like this, I had a lot on my mind.” With that, he sweeps the bottle off the table and finishes off the rest of the shitty, severely watered-down vodka that the shops have been stocking these days.

The bottle is warm and slippery from the hours spent grasped in his hand while he’s waiting on the stairs; Mdm Gras has offered to let him in, but there is a terseness in the lines of her jaw that deterred him from accepting. Ivan wipes his palm on his slacks, then rests his arm by the table. Gilbert looks displaced, lost and confused and upsettingly wary; he inches slightly closer, calves tensed. “I have some hard liquor stored away,” Gilbert suggests carefully.

Ivan smiles lazily. “You have some? How come you never told me about it?”

“I was saving it up. One’s the half-finished one you gave me for New Year’s, the other is something my mother saved up to give me for my birthday.”

Ivan remembers it. It’s a bottle of cognac, the same one he bought with the coffee and forgotten on the counter until the New Year’s dinner party when he was scavenging the cupboards for something other than champagne and found the unopened cognac staring up at him. “Let’s finish up the New Year’s bottle then. Get me properly drunk.”

The liquors are stored in the locked drawer of the bedstead, because that Gilbert only has two locked cupboards that have a lock in this house and this is the less secure one and the other is for his important documents and photography paraphernalia. Gilbert uncorks the bottle and pours out the liquor delicately into the two water-stained plastic cups. The whole situation is so surreal that Ivan can’t suppress the chuckle bubbling up his chest.

Gilbert doesn’t quite startle, although his fingers twitch. “What’s that for?”

Ivan thinks of this morning, no cheap plastic cups but there is cheap china because Mama is nothing if not ergonomic, no cognac but there is diluted juice because Pap is nothing if not (justifiably) an adherent to healthy-living, and the atmosphere as uncomfortable as it currently is with Gilbert, with little Natasha resisting the urge to fidget the same way that Gilbert currently is attempting. “This,” he answers, gesturing vaguely at the room, “this whole scene. It’s funny.”

Gilbert blinks. He corks the bottle carelessly and rests it on the table. Ivan knocks his cup with Gilbert’s, and takes a drink. If he concentrates, he notices how the taste is starting to run.

“Gilbert,” he suddenly begins, and he thinks of Natasha, tears in her eyes, uncharacteristic agitation in her clenched fists and her trembling lips as she screams, “let’s say one day – hypothetically, just hypothetically - if you have to one day choose between your principles and your heart, which will you choose?”

“My principles, probably,” Gilbert admits, “that’s the right thing to do.”

“Doesn’t it,” Ivan agrees. He refills the cup – a bare inch that is probably about 1.5oz and therefore just right – then changes his mind and upends the bottle.

Gilbert grabs his wrist and forces it back down. “Are you trying to give yourself alcohol poisoning, you savage?” Then, at Ivan’s steely stare, he swallows and loosens his grip. But he doesn’t remove his hand. “You – you’re wasting good alcohol.”

Ivan pauses. “Fair point.” He caps the bottle and takes a small sip instead of the gulp he longs for. “But I have the feeling that this is going to be a long night.”

Gilbert studies him inscrutably. “I’m getting you some water,” he announces, knocking around the kitchenette for a bowl instead as he hefts up the gallon bottle to pour the water. Ivan watches him, then stares at the cup, the amber swirling under the golden glow of dimmed fluorescent lighting and the faint moonlight trickling in from the shutters.

(Natasha hates the taste of cognac. Ira always calls her a baby for it.)

“Here,” Gilbert says, plonking the bowl on the bedstead. “Drink.”

Ivan complies, although the water doesn’t feel sobering at all. He finishes the last drop and places the bowl down, and Gilbert brings it away to refill it all over again.

(Natasha asking him, why, how can you just let this happen? before running away from the dining table to her room, Mama calmly slicing her apple and saying, she’s still such a child, isn’t she and Pap agreeing, she’ll get over it, she always does, and Ivan is just sitting there, sitting there, sitting there –)

The bowl is lowered with a muffled thump; the water barely swishes. Gilbert sits and takes a sip.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” asks Gilbert gingerly.

Ivan smiles. “No.”

“Ok,” Gilbert concedes, “ok.”

“Let’s small talk instead,” Gilbert abruptly changes the topic. “I don’t know about you, but Mdm Gras is getting more testy day-by-day. Must be nearing her menopause.”

Ivan knows; after Ivan’s report, some department or the other must be closing in on her. Ivan nods. “I thought I saw a bit of that crazy in her eyes today,” he admits, “and I didn’t dare to take up her offer to wait in her house. So, the stairs.”

Gilbert’s laugh is more of a snort. “It’s probably safer to risk the crazy than to wait outside in a neighbourhood like this,” Gilbert confesses. “Although I’m sure no one dares to take on a man as big as you.”

Indeed; it is one of the few advantageous offered by his size that confounds Ivan on whether to be proud or frustrated with his bulk. “And yet you’re only returning home at this hour.”

“Hey! I know some self-defence. I can take care of myself.”

“Do you?” Ivan presses, amused. Gilbert’s chest puffs up with bravado.

“Of course. I bet when push comes to shove, I can give even you the slip.”

“I’m not so sure you can. I’m told I’m one of the best fighters my instructor has ever taught.”

Gilbert grins; it’s a curious thing, Gilbert’s grin. His canines will flash, while only his left cheek will dimple. It’s cheekily adorable. It’s adorably cheeky. Ivan can’t make up his mind. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

“Maybe some other day,” Ivan agrees, “at some gym with a proper mat. I’m too drunk now to fight fair.”

A laugh. “And we’ll be too noisy and disturb the neighbours, who’ll think we’re brawling or having sex or something.”

“And we’ll both be reported,” Ivan finishes solemnly, “and be publicly shamed and punished. What a tragedy. In ten years’ time, they will make a movie about us, the supposed star-crossed lovers, and we will die dramatically at the end.”

“It will be so pretentious.”

“Definitely a hit in the theatres.”

“The critics are conflicted,” Gilbert quips, “everyone cries at the end, even the disgusted conservatives.”

“And we got ourselves a classic.” Ivan nods, smiling as Gilbert guffaws. “You and I, we will make the story of the century.”

“The great ol’ bloody twentieth century.” Gilbert lowers his head, a strange smile at the corner of his lips that curves into a beam too quickly. “Have you ever thought about how we will be alive at the turn of the new century?”

Whimsical, the thought. “Only about twenty years away.”

“Yeah! We’ll still be in our prime! Aren’t you excited?” Then, without waiting for Ivan’s reply, Gilbert raises his cup. “Here’s a toast to the new century!”

Optimistic, Gilbert is. Maybe they won’t even get to see the new century, and a nuclear armageddon will finally finish humanity once and for all. Maybe the powers managed to sidestep total annihilation, but that doesn’t mean Ivan won’t get killed by his father’s enemies, Gilbert able to get away with bending the rules, neither of them won’t get sick, won’t get into an accident, won’t get sent to the camps, won’t desert the bloc, won’t be stupid.

But Gilbert is smiling so bright, glowing in the dark, shades of silver from the moon and tints of gold from the lamp, iridescent glory if Ivan focuses enough. So he says, “Cheers,” and clinks their cups together. When he drinks, he swallows more than he intends to.

-

What's happened is this: Natasha chancing the question of Ira, Pap looking to Ivan, and Ivan, with only a split second of hesitation, admits, “Ira has been dealt with accordingly for being a traitor to the motherland.”

Natasha hasn’t reacted well. Then again, Natasha has bent over and over again to all the whipping force of the winds of fate, the harsh realities that stole her parents and forced her into urban Berlin when she longs for the woods behind her childhood home. She’s dealt with it before. She will adapt. She will accept. Pap is right: she will cope, the way she always does.

Ivan is the only person who needs to learn to live with the fact of Ira’s deeds.

-

He wakes with nausea curdling in his chest and a pounding headache that surges in momentary bursts before lying dormant at his temples. He is also staring up at walls too plain, a room too sparse, pale-blue light filtering into the room.

Gilbert snores from where he is curled up on the floor.

“You really shouldn’t have,” Ivan mutters, staggering to his feet as steadily as he can as he recalls the various times he’s fallen asleep on muddy marshlands during his training days while flies buzz threateningly close to his face, surely attracted by the stench of soldiers that have not showered for a week. He barely avoids trampling over Gilbert, grabbing the empty bowl on the bedstead as he heads to the kitchenette for water.

There’s some bread lying around. Ivan takes a slice.

If Ivan is a better man, he will look around the room, trying to figure out how the room is tapped and try to help Gilbert reserve even a semblance of privacy. The lights, that’s one. The painting, another. All the crooks and crannies usually overlooked are always liable to tampering.

If Ivan is a better man, he will wake Gilbert, help him onto the bed, and then help himself out, because Ivan still feels like an interloper in this apartment that is so functional that it’s sparse, occupying all the empty white spaces that are never meant to be filled.

But Ivan is not a better man, and he explores instead. Not too much, because it is a thin line between curiosity and intrusion, but he scans through the cupboards – the unlocked ones – the wardrobes, the little things that Gilbert leaves lying around because he forgets to keep them or can’t be bothered because he’s either using them too often or that they are too insignificant. How unlike Ivan, this man, that he keeps his most precious things locked up instead of wearing them on his sleeves and close to his heart the way that Ivan prefers.

Drab clothes. Clean clothes. A single tux set for formal events. A locked drawer, some drawers stored together with Gilbert’s socks and his only two ties, some old wordy propaganda flyers - both German and Russian ones – that makes Ivan’s head spins as he tries to make sense of tediously prolix sentences, a scratched set of dice and a pack of yellowed cards for long days, keys, old photographs that Ivan doesn’t look at out of respect. Ivan stops, because it feels invasive, now, and shuts the wardrobe doors. He goes to wake Gilbert.

Gilbert’s eyes are half-opened in the dizzy way that people who are caught in the last dregs of sleep and dragging their feet towards wakefulness suffer from, the kind of restless dozing that wastes more hours than expected because the dreamer neither sleeps nor acts. He steers and pushes himself up drowsily as he stares at Ivan.

“Morning,” says Ivan, “I have to leave now.”

“Ok,” says Gilbert, “ok.”

“I boiled some water.”

“Ok.”

“Then I’ll see myself out,” Ivan informs, “remember to lock the door.”

He makes to pet Gilbert’s stringy bird nest of hair, but remembers better at the last moment and aborts his original trajectory to pat Gilbert on the shoulder instead. Gilbert’s entire body sways as though to lean into his palm; Ivan has to right Gilbert by gently pushing him to lean against the bed.

“Goodbye,” he calls over his shoulder. Gilbert is hidden by the bed, only a few flyaway strands to be seen poking up from the other side of the bed. Ivan closes the door as lightly as he can manage.

-

It’s still dawn when he leaves, the sky lightening by inches as though reluctant to wake up, blue receding like waves from the beach, except that the blue seas are above and the skies are on the grey ground, topsy-turvey.

He reports to work instead of heading home first. With whispers of political changes slithering down the corridors, Ivan would rather be at the heart of the gossip and struggling to disseminate truth from rumours, than to be left out of the loop and scamper when the chatter bites him in the ass. Dima’s finishing the tail-end of his shift by drinking coffee at the pantry, the new boy – Petto, they call him – listening with starry eyes the way that young, impressionable teens are always enchanted by Dima’s natural charm. Dima sees him and waves hello, while Petto starts stammering a proper greeting; Ivan waves back, and before Dima can put two and two together, hurries off towards his office.

“Sasha?” Ivan calls out. Sasha turns around from where he is staring up at Ivan’s door.

“It’s Alex,” he grunts instinctively, then squares his shoulders. “Sir.”

“I didn’t know you’re working the night shift today.”

“I didn’t know you are too,” Sasha answers, and there is a tightness to his face that speaks to Ivan about the need for privacy. Then, in case anyone is listening, “I decide to turn up early today to finish up my paperwork.”

“Ah, glad to know that I managed to inculcate a strong sense of responsibility in my men,” Ivan entertains, “if not a sense of distaste for procrastination.” He unlocks the door. “Come in.”

Ivan’s files are already shelved away, and more confidential documents locked amidst scrap paper in case some thieving hands decide to go wandering. Ivan’s room is not made for guests, so he has to force the rusty folding chair open for Sasha.

“Thanks,” Sasha mutters, settling down gingerly as the chair creaks.

Ivan takes his seat too. “Anything for our best patriot,” he answers, not quite sincerely, but not quite casually either. He purposefully knocks over the tin penholder as he continues, “How does it feel, being promoted to a double agent?”

The penholder spins noisily on the floor before rolling to a stop by Sasha’s foot. “Nerve-wrecking,” Sasha admits, leaning down to pick up the pens. “I’m thinking of making copies of my will.”

“Like you have anything to leave behind.”

Sasha smiles bitterly, a quirk of the lips. “It’s the principle of it.”

“If you say so.” Ivan restores the penholder to its rightful spot. “Now, I’m sure you’re not here today just to talk about your new duties.”

“No. No, I, uh - no.” Sasha reaches into his coat to pull out a small wax-sealed envelope and pushes it over the table. “The report.” Ivan presses his palm on it, sliding it over to the corner. He waits.

Sasha stares distractedly at an indiscriminate spot over Ivan’s shoulders. “Do you have a smoke?”

“Help yourself.” Ivan fishes a packet out from his coat pocket. Sasha accepts one, lights it with Ivan’s lighter, and inhales deep and long like he is drawing in a soul or a dying breath – they are all the same, somehow, in Ivan’s opinion.

The smoke exhaled spreads like advancing infantry through the air, smog enveloping the skyline. Sasha lowers the cigarette, tapping it against his knees, the ashes sticking to his slacks like pollen.

“Ivan,” Sasha finally begins, quietly, nervously, “sir. Aren’t you too close to the German reporter?”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” Sasha admits, “another’s man’s personal life is none of my business, and more importantly, the Germans didn’t notice. It was a bare flicker in the recordings. It was only because I recognise both of you that I realised.” A hesitation. “Does Dima…”

“I’m guessing he guessed. Either way, he’ll be on my side.”

“Even when Rosa is in the picture?”

Ivan’s fingers twitch before he can catch himself; Sasha pointedly does not mention it. “Rosa’s father is Russian, isn’t he? That makes her a Russian national. They shouldn’t act without informing us.” He forcefully flattens his palm. “So much for unwavering loyalty. Has Dubček’s fate not taught Honecker anything about not biting off more than he can chew?”

Sasha doesn’t comment, although he does snigger. “They nicknamed her Das Brothäuslein. Like the house of sweets in the fairytale.” He takes another drag of his cigarette. “I don’t like this. I’ve been reading the news and our Arab allies –”

“Sasha,” Ivan interrupts, “don’t tell me things that you don’t want me to take action about.”

“Yes, sir.” Sasha lowers his head. “It’s - there’s something brewing, and I can’t figure it out.”

“You don’t have to. That is above your rank.”

Sasha’s huff sounds more like a disgruntled grouse than a bitter laugh. “Heck, you sound like your father.”

“I do, don’t I,” Ivan replies mournfully, “but I am your superior: some things I must say. Whatever the situation looks like, your duty is to process and report, and then follow orders - not acting on your accord in some misguided attempt to effect change.”

“It’s frustrating to wait,” Sasha rumbles as he crosses his legs. “Everything’s falling apart.”

“Everything has been falling apart, and will continue to fall apart, as the days pass,” Ivan advises, “and amidst the ruins of the old, we will build a new future. This is the curse of time.”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t need to repeat that – I actually listen to your father’s speeches.” He stubs out the cigarette on the ashtray before getting to his feet as Ivan stands. “So, no changes?”

“No. Stick to your existing orders,” Ivan confirms. “I will inform you of any changes.”

He walks Sasha over to the door, pausing to listen for footsteps before reaching for the knob.

“Wait,” Sasha cuts hastily, and hovers his hands awkwardly about him the way Pap tends to do when lowering his pride to apologise to Mama. Ivan stares calmly at him. Sasha inhales deeply, as though bracing himself, and straightens his back. “I think you need to know that the Germans codenamed your reporter as Rusalka. They don’t have anything on him, but they insist that he has to be closely watched.” He meets Ivan steadily in the eye. “I’m not sure what this means, but: be careful.”

“I will,” Ivan assures. He leans in to pat Sasha on the back.

Sasha is a gruff man, so he reacts to comfort with a grunt and a nod of acknowledgement, before slipping out of the door and down the corridors, leaving no trace of his presence except for the cigarette butt smoking on Ivan’s desk.

-

What's happened is this: before sleeping over at Gilbert's, before the morning when Natasha screams at him, Ivan finds the report that there may have been a mole in the team.

Information that should be kept in has been flowing out - and flowing west, no less. Fortunately, it's nothing too significant that they can't handle, but still - that information is flowing out at all is alarming. The higher-ups hadn't noticed earlier because of the huge disruption caused by Lev Petrovich's absence, and Ivan hadn't noticed because of his extra workload, because of Ira, because of - because of Gilbert.

Ivan should have noticed it - noticed it earlier, before someone else did and has to tip-off the office and the news trickle down to him. Ivan's their leader; Ivan should be paying attention to his men. Not himself. Not his personal life. Not Gilbert.

(Dear sacrosanct duty. He doesn't admit this, but he hates himself, just a little, for that.)

He gathers all his men in the storeroom because he wants to keep it neat and private. The boxes of Christmas goods and attires are still shoved messily to the side. They don't usually do this - official orders and meetings are done at the parade square - and Ivan sees that the change unnerves his men, nervous flickers of eyes and uncomfortable jostling amongst men too used to Ivan's leniency to forget their old training back at the barracks.

"It has come to my attention," Ivan begins, slowly but firmly, and the trained discipline kicks in as they snap to attention, "that information that should be kept within our building has been heard elsewhere. Specifically, in the west." He pauses. The tension in the air is so volatile that all it takes is an exhale to set it off. Ivan studies his men; they are grim, thin-lipped, and amongst the older guards, the ones most loyal and followed Ivan the longest - there is a tired blackness in their eyes that whispers breaths of resignation.

Ivan continues, "I, and our comrades above us, have cause to believe that there may be a spy among us."

And all hell breaks loose.

Accusations are thrown and young Karl's West German relations are pointed out alongside Dima's bedroom talk with Rosa; Sasha's private nature as much a bane as Goga's (with an E, for Egor) suspiciously common name, while Goga argues the case for the other Goga (with a Y, for Georgiy), who, Goga with an E claims, should not be excused from suspicion simply because he's with the team longer than him. Then pretty Felya directs all their direction towards Petto: little, hopeful, doe-eyed, foreign newbie Petto, Bulgarian and fresh from the training barracks, a new unknown with a face that veers towards just that sweet point of plain and average and therefore forgettable. He makes a good case, Felya does, and he's been with them through enough that there is an inherent trust.

Dima looks at Petto with something like betrayal and something like disappointment, and Petto's responding desperation triggers an ache that spreads up Ivan's chest.

"Hey, that's not fair!" Roman argues, "I'm foreign too. German, even, and yet my loyalties are more steadfast than a Bulgarian's? Are you messing with me?"

Felya leers. "There will always be dissatisfaction, even in the most successful states," he insists, "you'd think all the resistance groups are crushed in Warsaw, but when my babcia writes, she mentions seeing incendiary propaganda." He sniffs. "Petto may be the exception."

"But that's fucking Poland. Bulgaria is one of the closest allies!"

"Then what, are you saying we should accuse you instead?" Felya retorts fiercely, "why are you so defensive of the newbie anyway?"

"You -"

"Enough," Ivan interrupts. He turns to Petto. Petto stares up, pupils dilated and cheeks pale. "What have you got to say for yourself, then?" Ivan asks, because what he doesn't tell the rest of them is that Petto is on the list of immediate suspects that he followed up on before he held this meeting. If he looks past the recent five years, Petto's history is not so squeaky-clean after all. "I have reports of your past misconducts. You couldn't quite stop yourself from pocketing the sweets from the counter, can you?"

"I was young and bored," Petto defends timidly, "and stupid."

"You're also angry," Ivan corrects gently, "remember: I have your file. You have a friend, don't you? Someone vocal. Someone who tries to swim upstream."

"He's not - Vlad is not against the party line -"

"I know," Ivan placates, "I know. That's why he's not arrested." Yet, unless he changes his attitude.

Petto can't quite keep the tremble from showing in the twitch of his wrists. "I am not a spy. I signed on because I wanted to serve the Fatherland, not to ruin it. I don't -"

"I know, I know. I have your file. I only wanted to hear what you have to say." Ivan reaches out a hand and pauses, somewhere by Petto's left ear, and hovers. Petto barely represses his flinch. Ivan clams his palm down firmly on the shoulder, and pats it. "I know you are not the traitor, don't worry."

Petto looks like a distressed deer in the headlights for a moment, before the words sink in and he visibly deflates. "I thought-"

"I just wanted to see how you'll react," Ivan explains, "how you'll handle this. Anyway, were you here the last time we have to deal with a traitor? No? Well, the moment there is ample evidence, we dragged him out to the courtyard to have him questioned, then shot." He pauses deliberately, then, and observes the blood draining from Petto's lips. "So the fact that you are still standing here means that you get to live another day."

He turns back towards the rest of the team, some staring up in confusion, the other in silent scrutiny, wondering, waiting, the whistling of the wind accompanying the fall of the blade called blame not yet heard and therefore not indicative of an end to the ordeal. Sasha stares at him with something like understanding, and Dima with an age-old weariness that Ivan can feel in his bones. "I want all of you to watch your actions and of others'. A careless quip has its consequences. Dismissed."

The group shuffles towards the door, the newer ones hanging back, uncertain, Roman patting Petto encouragingly on the back while Dima hovers and assures that while this is not a regular occurrence, this is not rare either, don't you think such experiences truly capture the zeitgeist of our era?

Ivan inhales and counts to three. Then he raises the pistol that he's been hiding in his inner coat pocket and calmly shoots Felya at the back of his knee.

Felya crumples with a shout.

The Gogas immediately swoop down to haul him up. The movement jostles his knee and Felya shouts again, pain twisting his face ugly like a gnarling gargoyle.

The crowd parts like the Red fucking Sea as Ivan steps forward. Petto looks like he's about to pass out. "You know," Ivan begins, halting right by Felya's front. He taps the wounded knee gently. Felya grinds his teeth. "While you're my biggest suspect, I didn't have anything conclusive until I saw how you fervently you attempted pushing the blame on someone. That was a vital slip, isn't it, Felya? Proves your complicity." Ivan smiles, not unkindly. Then, with careful enunciation: "But wait - Felix is not your real name. Feliks is."

"You must have dug deep to find that out - I hadn't used that spelling since I was fourteen," Felya grits out, "how does the dirt taste?"

"Honestly? I didn't get to try. The other division headed the digging and contacted the Stasi. They're worried that I'll be too sentimental to be unbiased, you see."

"Sentimental? You shot me in the fucking knee!"

"Uh-uh," says Ivan, a verbal wagging of the finger. Felya looks ready to bite his nose off. "I didn't shoot you in the head."

(Later, when everything is stored away neatly in their proper corners and cells, Ivan turns the corner and sees Dima and Petto. He immediately backs behind a wall.

Their voices are too quiet to be heard properly, but Ivan is trained to listen. Dima's voice is coloured with a tenderness that Ivan only hears him use with animals and children. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

"It's fine," replies Petto, "I'm the new kid, after all."

"Still. I took you under my wing. I should have known better." There's the sound of shuffling, and something too muffled passes. Ivan waits. Then he hears a soft chuckle, and Dima says, "You worry too much, detskaya ptitsa." Baby bird. Huh.

Then he hears the non-descript sound of movement that may a comforting hug, may be Dima casually leaning back on his heels, may be a gentle kiss because Dima has also always been known for his cruelty to lovers; Ivan thinks about detouring, and slips away to give them space.)

-

"Ivan," says Gilbert, and it is only then that Ivan snaps out of autopilot.

He's outside headquarters, leaning against the wall, on the street and still in uniform. There's a cigarette smouldering in his hand. He checks his box. Huh. He hasn't realised he's smoked that much. "Oh. Gilbert." He rubs his eyes. "Sorry, I was distracted."

"I hadn't seen you recently."

"No, no. I've been staying over at the office. Things have been busy." Very busy, what with the pressure both from the looming inevitability of a change in leadership, and the culpability of Felya and the extent to which he has betrayed them that they have yet to find out.

Gilbert nods slowly. "Ivan, I," he begins haltingly, and it's strange how at moments like this, (moments tender like a whisper that - Ivan knows, if he pays attention, will discover the secrets of the universe from the slightest twitch of the jaw, but -) that Ivan fixates on the most insignificant things. He watches the transparent flutter of Gilbert's lashes, pale and nigh non-existent unless he looks closely, leans in intimately, until they can feel the exhales of each other's breath as they share the same bubble of air. "-van, are you listening to me? Are you, are you ok? Ivan?"

"Why do you always call me Ivan?" Ivan voices. "You do know that, for us Russians, we call people dear to us by their diminutives? We start using diminutives with casual friends." And we are clearly more than that, Ivan doesn't add.

Gilbert shrugs. "It feels weird," he admits, "I'm German, not Russian."

That is a truism, Ivan thinks, that conventional wisdom has taught will remain an insurmountable barrier ruling their lives. Gilbert is German, and recalcitrant: therefore he does not adopt any Russian conventions in his way; Ivan is Russian and traditional: therefore he absorbs rules like a sponge soaking up water, takes to customs like a fish to water, accepting his boundaries and expectations even before the first questions can emerge in his mind. "And so you are," he allows, because that's only fair.

Gilbert nods, shoulders stiff with awkwardness, somehow at a loss by Ivan's repeated shutting down of attempts to hold conversations. Gilbert, Ivan realises with a start, does not know how to react to Ivan's changes. This is a first.

Ivan decides to take the initiative. He thinks of Felya. "Did you know, we are psychologically more inclined to trust good-looking people faster?"

"Really? Does this mean that humanity is biologically vain and shallow?"

Ivan chuckles. "We can't help it," he explains, "beauty symbolises wellness. Beauty in people symbolise healthiness; beauty in nature symbolises lively lands and bountiful soils. We learn to recognise beauty as good."

"Yeah, but society assigns its own beauty standards that may not always concur to such standards."

"Nevertheless, humans pursue beauty, and therefore beauty affects our judgement." He side-eyes Gilbert. "You're a photographer. Shouldn't you value beauty too?"

Gilbert barks out a laugh. His shoulders loosen, slightly, and the slight slope of his lips hints at something like nostalgia. "It's been a long time since we talked like this," he confesses. Ivan rather thinks that Gilbert misses him. "The last time... hasn't been much of a conversation."

Has it only been last week that he's been over at Gilbert's, last week when Natasha yelled at him, two weeks since he's exposed Felya? Work has blurred the passing of the days, memories slurring and fatigue settling deep in the marrows, until a second is stretched into a minute, a moment into eternity. "You mean the time I stayed over?"

"It's - I, uh." Gilbert swallows. "You're gone when I woke up."

"I tried to wake you."

"Yeah," Gilbert agrees, nodding, "yeah. I vaguely remember that, that you said goodbye but uh, you don't look like you should be walking about in that state, I mean, I -" He clams his mouth shut, a flustered red tinting his cheekbones. "I mean, do you want to talk? Or, or a hug or something? I don't know." A hesitation, and Gilbert bites out, confessional, "I thought you look like you need it."

For a moment, Ivan feels a warmth that curls around his spines and spreads across his shoulder blades, like his particularly affectionate pet cat from his childhood, crawling onto his back while Ivan was chest-down, doodling on Pap's unwanted documents before they are to be shredded. Then he remembers the weight of responsibility, the callousness of reality, his own warnings hissing in his ears: masked secrets that slip out as easy as breathing, as pillow talk, as assurance, and Ivan tucks his corners back into himself.

"It's nothing," Ivan answers, not quite a lie as much as a half-truth, "just overwhelmed." Lev Petrovich is very sick and we are all struggling with the lack of clear instructions and picking up his slack. "There is some manpower reshuffling so everyone's busy."

The evening sun is a dying ghost today, its greyness pulling the city through a hazy fog. Gilbert seems to fade in and out of the white-washed world. Ivan has to focus to prevent the edges of Gilbert's silhouette from blurring into the background. "Ok," says Gilbert, cautiously, bitterly. Disappointedly. "Ok, then I won't disturb you too much. You up for coffee soon, though? But only if you want a quick perk-me-up, or a short break or something - why not, right? A little break never hurt anyone."

"Why not," Ivan echoes. "I'm free now."

Gilbert blinks. "Yeah, sure!" He gesticulates a little frantically. "I mean, I'm free now, uhm, do you have anywhere in mind? Maybe Julia's?"

"No, not hers. I know somewhere new that makes good lemon tarts."

Gilbert agrees too quickly. Thrown off, no doubt, by Ivan's uncharacteristic spontaneity that has rarely reared its head, much less at a moment when Ivan has no doubt that he looks like a walking corpse, with his dark-eye circles and slouching gait.

Ivan wants to reach out and stroke along the tenseness of Gilbert's jaws until he finally loosens his bite; instead, Ivan says, "Gilbert," and he says, "I'm fine, stop worrying."

Gilbert's jaws clench tighter as though he wants to say something and it's taking his entire self-restraint to hold himself back. Then, he exhales, and all the tension leaves his body, a curving of the shoulders like a deflated balloon. "You don't make it easy."

"I know: I'm sorry." He doesn't quite reach out, but his posture visibly transforms, curling around Gilbert like he can shield him from the snarling cruelty of the world. "Gilbert, look at me."

"Yeah?"

Ivan smiles. "Just for today, let's just stop thinking." The here and the now, Ivan thinks, only the here and the now.

Gilbert's eyes are wide and opaque when he looks back. "Ok," he says, with too much sympathy in his voice.

(It's about consequences, Ivan remembers, but sometimes all he longs for is a break in the moment.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you do when you are unemployed, sick, and upset over applications? Contemplate going over your past chapters to edit grammar while whining about unsatisfactory style over your newest chapter, of course.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy VE Day

"Happy V-Day," says Ivan, and Gilbert almost drops his camera from where he is... he is dissecting its innards. He did, however, drop his screwdriver. One of the secretaries around the place scowls at him. "I didn't know you tinker your cameras to this extent."

"Yeah, well, I do have an engineering degree." Ivan thinks that's mention in Gilbert's file somewhere; he's not sure, he's never tried understanding the German education system. Gilbert lowers his camera gingerly. "I... how did you know I would be at the office today?"

"I took a bet," Ivan explains. Gilbert raises both eyebrows. "Also, you mentioned that you were busy around the end of last month helping out at your mother's and couldn't come into office to receive your pay. I took a bet."

"Yeah, that, and you saw in the papers that my 'extraordinarily subversive portrayal of bliss amid the mundane'-" Ivan can't quite suppress his grin at the memory of reading the article, "- or in layman, my exhibit just closed last Sunday and it has been insanely successful, so it's likely that I'll come in to collect my pay at least three working days from then." Gilbert's lips are quirked at its corners. "And then you remember that I wouldn't have picked up my work for the paper for last month, so I'll definitely come in today."

"That, too," Ivan allows. "These are multi-layered reasons."

Gilbert snorts. "Whatever you say." He leans over to pick up his screwdriver; Ivan does not stare. "Anyway, why the visit?" 

"You said you missed my company." 

"I didn't -" 

"So I thought," Ivan continues, "I finally have something of a day off, so maybe if you are free today?"

Gilbert blinks. He stares down at his camera. Then he looks up. "That's sudden," he replies, "uh, give me some time to clear this up."

"Sure," says Ivan.

-

"When I was a kid in Moscow," Ivan reminisces, "I saw the 1965 celebrations. The parade was strikingly grandiose."

Particularly when compared to the small bubbles of celebration left-and-right in the city as they stroll down the streets; people certainly do take all chances to celebrate in these dull and dreary days, even when the state doesn't take active steps. Gilbert hums. Takes a picture: street photography at its simplest. "Must have been spectacular."

"It is," Ivan agrees, thinking of the straight lines and the sounds, everyone's movement coordinated to the milliseconds as though a nail in a cog in the engine of a whole system. "Resplendent."

"I don't have something like that to compare with," Gilbert admits, "but the V-Day celebrations a few years back wasn't too bad."

"The 1975 one?"

"Yeah. We also celebrated Liberation Day when I was young. I liked it because it means another day off from school."

Ivan laughs. He crowds Gilbert closer to the walls to make way for two giggling siblings - an older sister and her younger brother - as they sprint down the cobblestone paths, bellowing marching tunes. "You sound like you have a very different childhood from mine," he confesses, "day-offs were never a thing for me. I was homeschooled."

It's sunset again, but the sun sets slow today, casting the skies in beautiful ombrés of pink and rose-gold that melts into each other and sinking into a deeper purple, like the merging of watery hues at the haloclines of estuaries. It reminds him too much of Leningrad's white nights, and he tells Gilbert that. "Did you know," he begins, "that from around mid-June to early-July, the sun never fully sets in Leningrad? Even during midnight, the sky is lit: it's eternal twilight."

"Sounds wonderful," says Gilbert, "do you think I'll ever have the chance to photograph it?"

"Maybe. You can try applying; artiste professions have more leeway in transport than the rest of the populace." Ivan side-eyes him. "It's breathtakingly dreamy. When I was a kid, I thought that during those white nights, Leningrad was transformed into Paradise because God pitied the city for that decade-long of suffering and decided to give it something beautiful as solatium."

"Huh." A comfortable quiet settles for the next seven seconds, as Gilbert runs through Ivan's word in his mind while adjusting the aperture to shoot the skyline. "Huh, wait." Gilbert's head snaps up at Ivan. "You spent your childhood at Leningrad? I thought you were a kid in Moscow?"

And here comes the question that everyone loves to ask. Every time the topic of his childhood comes up, Ivan always has to answer this question - Ivan has been waiting for that question ever since Gilbert and he became friends. Or not quite friends: that has never been the word for them from the very start. It has always been a strange tension, the stroke of a trailing nail up his spine that sends his nerves tingling and the dizzying sense of anticipation dangling above his neck and the space between their skins. 

"My parents were both from Leningrad, actually. They were settled in Moscow, but somehow Pap got himself embroiled in some diplomatic duties, so we moved between both cities throughout my childhood," he elaborates, "that's why I'm homeschooled, actually. We moved too often."

Gilbert nods solemnly. They turn the corner by a flickering streetlamp, insignificant amidst the daylight and fizzling loudly above their heads. Then there is the flash of red shoes at the corner of his eyes, the click of heels of hurrying feet underneath a fluttering skirt, sensual love and heated passion. "You never told me that."

"You never asked."

"I thought you didn't like to talk about family." And you thought right, Ivan thinks. "Guess that's a good thing, though. I mean, your birthday's in mid-June, right? You'll have nature celebrating your birthday with the coming of those white nights you love so much."

Ivan clears his throat. "About that," he begins, "actually, my birthday is not in June."

Gilbert halts. "What?!" He stares incredulously at Ivan as though he is an extremely gullible and patriotic six-year-old and Ivan just told him that Uncle Lenin is actually human and not some idolised four-dimensional god-like superman. "Wait, what the fuck? Did I remember it wrongly, or, or - because I clearly remembered that you told me it's June -"

Ivan laughs sheepishly. "Yeah, that." He averts his gaze. "I, uh, lied. I don't like letting people know when's my birthday. Don't like the fuss."

"I can't believe this." Gilbert stares down at his shoes. "I really can't. This is rapidly changing everything I've known about you."

"It's just a birthday."

"It's not just a birthday," Gilbert insists, "it's the day you're fucking born, how can it be nothing?"

Ivan shifts his weight uncomfortably. "In the end, to the rest of the world, it's just another day, no?" he argues. "It's not like New Year's or the birth of some great man. The world doesn't care for just any single man's birth."

"You - there's no arguing with you." Gilbert huffs loudly in exasperation, drawing his fingers through his hair. "So. When exactly is your birthday, then?"

He hesitates. Then he decides to follow official documents, just in case Gilbert later decides that he wants to celebrate. "Twelfth of April. The day that Yuri flew into space." He smiles lightly. He's said that to many of his friends when he's younger, and now he's sharing it with Gilbert this little piece of who he was. It must be what they call melancholy, that slithering heaviness suffocating his chest and he has to fight before finding his voice to speak, "That reminds me: when I turned six, I was listening to the radio when I heard them announce that Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space. And I thought, that happened on my birthday! A man surpassed human boundaries on my birthday! Mine! That must mean something." There's a sudden lick of wind that has Ivan blinking back tears; he pauses, glancing up at the skyline, as though if he looks hard enough, he can look into the past and see the rocket lifting off into the atmosphere. "It felt like Mankind's personal present for me. So although nature didn't gift me with white nights, the Soviet scientists did gift me with a national holiday." He looks back at Gilbert. "I am very sentimental today, aren't I, with my repeated trips down the memory lane."

Gilbert laughs. Then he pauses, did some quick math, and startles. "You're only twenty-three?"

"Yes?" Ivan stills. "Will that be an issue?"

"No," Gilbert admits. "No, it's just... I thought you're at least the same age as me, or possibly a few years older. I don't know," he accuses, "I don't know that you're so... so..."

"Green?" Ivan guesses. "That's not true, you know. You may think it's oligarchy, but I've been trained my whole life for a military career."

Gilbert frowns. "Your whole life?"

"Well, my grandfather was a highly-decorated soldier," Ivan admits, "and my father followed in his footsteps. I admired them when I was a kid." Then, his voice lowered, "I won't know what else to do otherwise."

Gilbert doesn't reply for a long time. When he does, it's with a strange tenderness in his voice that makes Ivan ache. "You can do anything you want," he says, and there is another layer, Ivan thinks, another layer that he has to parse: the option or the ability, both of which is Gilbert's answer to him, and for a long second it knocks the breath out of Ivan's lungs, this suffocating belief that leaves Ivan giddy and gasping for air.

Then Ivan comes to his senses. "Gilbert," he says, "the only thing I am good at is my job," and Gilbert's eyes flash so viciously that it scares him.

"You could be more than that," he says, "you could own the whole damn sky."

"Gilbert," says Ivan, helplessly.

"But I guess you are only twenty-four," Gilbert relents, deflating, the tension not quite easing out of his body as he reaches jerkily for his camera. "Come on, I want to take some pictures of the parties at the pubs."

Ivan isn't quite willing to let the topic drop, but he is even worse than Gilbert when it comes to confronting elephants in the room. He feels the phantom stare of the ghost of Gilbert's proclamation, of more than that, watching him from the creaks and crevices of the room, the ghosts of the dead and the maligned, the innocent and the guilty, the dead buried under the city and between its seams, all the weight of history staring at him. Could they all have something more too, like him? Or are they all trapped by the destinies of their time, trapped by society and politics and family and everything inbetween, content with what they have or ignorant of any other alternatives like Ivan? Like Gilbert insists that Ivan has, the other path that Ivan can't even see?

"Ivan?" Gilbert calls from a few steps to the front. Ivan shakes his head and catches up.

-

"They are so in love," one of the drunks slur loudly, "the entire HQ was weeping."

The crowd roar with laughter; someone shoves the drunk and shouts even louder, "Well, well, well. You know how the saying goes: There are people who tell jokes, there are people who collect jokes and tell jokes,  and then there are people who collect people who tell jokes! Watch your goddamn ass, Rudolf!" 

Loud cheers as Rudolf tries to wrestle the second man, except they are both so drunk that they topple straight onto the ground and lay there immobile but shouting.

Ivan calmly knocks back his beer, neck prickly with the awareness of Gilbert's watchful stare and skin painfully sensitive to the heat from Gilbert's calf pressed against his, the warmth seeping through their pants. He wonders what that looks like to others: tall men with legs too long that they can't hook it onto their own stools, they have to stretch out, expand, take up space simply by existing. Ivan sighs as he feels the beer slides down his throat. Turns to meet Gilbert's eyes.

Gilbert does not blink. "Does it bother you?"

"No." Ivan smiles. "It's pretty funny, actually." And none of his business. The Stasi watches the Germans, and the KGB watches the Stasi. Of course, they also watch the Russians; there's a joke about that, somewhere. Ivan can't quite recall at the moment. "As long as there're no defamation or slander, there is normally no cause for concern."

"Is that how it works?"

"Yeah," Ivan confirms, resting his cheek on the back of his hand, "and if not? How did you think it works?"

Gilbert shrugs. He startles as Ivan shifts, the jagged tip of Ivan's sole digging against Gilbert's ankle. There's a flush up his neck. "I've always thought that there is no way that they can find out about every single transgression; that's nine million people in East Germany."

And that, Ivan feels, is the beauty of the Stasi (and therefore also the military): they can be so inefficient sometimes at things that matter less so that they hide the ways they are most effective for things that matter more. It's a farce, a cheap trick: make others think that you are trying to pass off subpar work as quality, and they won't notice the actual tampering, the extensiveness of surveillance until the authorities finally clamp down on them.

"And they have to spy on the enemies too," Ivan says, "isn't that a lot of work?"

Gilbert picks up his own beer, fingers digging into the ridges of the mug. There's something about his fingers (callused, stubby but long, hands of a musician, a tinkerer, a creator) that is strangely mesmerising. Ivan has to force himself to look away. "Too much work," Gilbert agrees. "Didn't we agree to seek rapprochement?"

"Rapprochement can only be attained if both parties are willing."

Gilbert snorts. "Both, you say," he leers. "There are more than two parties."

It's a long time before Ivan can answer. He retracts his feet, letting them thump heavily onto the ground. "No. No, there are not."

-

What will happen, Ivan wonders, if he kisses Gilbert there and then, amidst the backdrop of roaring drunks and sad-eyed loners? Amidst the yellow shower of the bar lights, the dingy and worn-out furniture, the cracked faux-leather barstools that itch when rubbed against skin, polyester padding fizzy against the seams that are picked at.

What will happen, if Ivan is to kiss Gilbert like it's the last day of his life, hands trembling down the lines of his body, the slant of the jugular, the stroke of the throat, the curve of a body with more edges than softness; breath is hot breath is wet, essence of his soul oozing out of the pores in his skin to diffuse into another, the melding of two beings in a raw form of human expression.

What will happen, if Ivan asks for more, if Gilbert asks for more, but Ivan can feel a million eyes watching him? The million eyes of ghosts, the ten million eyes of men doing their jobs, of the hundred million eyes of men believing their duty, of the billion eyes the world's suffocating judgement, the nine billion names of god, the gasp of his conscience slipping between his fingers in every touch.

It'll be sensual, Ivan thinks. It'll be filled with guilt and a damning sense of paranoia. It'll be everything he ever wanted - the instinctual ache for touch, skin-to-skin, almost foreign (it's been a long time since Ivan felt someone else's touch). It'll be preceded with the ominous knowledge of the fate he delivered like a ruler of cosmic laws every other day. It's the future he never wants for Gilbert, and it'll ruin them all.

"Ivan," Gilbert begins, cautiously, diffidently, tenderly.

Ivan quashes his yearning, and at the intersection of decisions, at the flutter of a second when the streetlight flickers off, leans in and kiss Gilbert at the corner of his lips.

"Oh," says Gilbert. "Is this. Does this count as a proper date?"

For some reason, this makes Ivan laughs. It emerges as quiet chuckles that grow into uncontrollable giggling and reaches its final form as sharp inhales that squeezes tears out of the corner of his eyes. Gilbert looks uncomfortable; if he focuses, Ivan will say that there is frustration behind the sadness in Gilbert's eyes.

"When was it ever not?" Ivan says, "good night," and he doesn't stay to watch Gilbert makes his way up to his apartment.

-

He wakes up to the thud of someone climbing in from the window, and before he can reach for his pistol, hears Gilbert hiss, "Wait, it's just me."

"Gilbert?" In the dim light, he catches sight of the clock. It's 2am. "Why are you - how did you get in? There are two layers of window grid and an insect net." Not to mention that Ivan lives on the eighth story of a building filled with bureaucrats and officials.

"College was wild," Gilbert admits. Then, more uncertainly, "I just. I can't let it end like that."

He hovers awkwardly by the window, gangly limbs and jittery movements. The window, still open, lets in a draft that ruffles Gilbert's hair and flutters his shirt; in the moonlight, Gilbert looks like an apparition: faded, pale, unreal. A transient shadow of cloudy curtains, almost purple in the night lights, that vanishes with a blink.

"Do you think," Ivan begins, then pauses, because he has no idea what goes after that.

Gilbert takes a step gingerly forward. "I thought-"

"I know," says Ivan, "but-" He pauses. "We can't always have what we want."

"I fucking hate this," says Gilbert, "all of this. Why can't I just -"

"Gilbert."

"If not now, then when?" Gilbert demands. "Am I expected to just twiddle my thumb and hope that one day I won't have to wonder if I'm watching TV or if the TV is watching me? Because I'm tired of that shit."

"Gilbert -"

"Because," Gilbert barrels on, almost spitting, "the world has been coloured and the borders drawn since nineteen-fucking-forty-five, and now it's been more than three decades, and nothing has changed. That's generations, Ivan, generations born and lived in this world that has never known otherwise, like you and I. How long must I wait, huh? Another thirty years?"

"Gilbert," says Ivan, and he can feel his eyes crinkling, his shoulders slouching. "Gilbert, come here."

"And then what?"

"And then you are going to sit down," says Ivan, "before anything else. So come over."

Gilbert's steps are small and silent as he makes his way across the room. The moment he is within reach, Ivan grabs him and pulls, toppling Gilbert forward until Gilbert is straddling his thighs. This close, his eyes glitter with fury and his breath stutters like the rev of an engine; a war machine, this man, Ivan thinks. Gilbert is a man who will level battlefields and create history.

"Fucking hell," Gilbert mutters, and Ivan's eyes are drawn down as Gilbert unconsciously licks his lips. "Are we really doing this?"

"I don't know," Ivan admits, "but I don't have -"

"There are many things you can do without it." Then, at Ivan's questioning pause, elaborates, "College."

"And that's why the intelligentsia is watched."

Gilbert laughs, a small, throaty thing that seems to get stuck in the lump of his Adam's apple. "Kinky."

"Shush, you." Ivan lets Gilbert cup his face gingerly, lets Gilbert tugs him forward until their forehead are pressed together, and it's almost nuzzling, what they do, the gentle push and pull, the soft warmth and the flutter of lashes against skin, the heaves of wet breaths as they press their faces into the crooks and juts of each other. "What do you want?"

Gilbert pulls away. His eyes search Ivan's for a long time. "I want more than this."

"Ok," says Ivan, and before Gilbert can respond, leans back in to press an open-mouthed kiss. "Ok," he says again, and peppers that with another. "Ok, ok."

"Fuck," says Gilbert, as he slides deeper forward. Their breaths mingle as he whispers, "I hate you for doing this to me."

You did this to yourself, Ivan wants to say, you did this to me. Instead, he curls his arms around Gilbert's waist, slow and languid as he lets Gilbert in, lets Gilbert map their reality, a heated urgency tempered by the need for quiet.

And Ivan closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote the final scene at 3am. So thank you, me at 3am, that there is an almost-sex scene.  
>  2) tbh this scene is most reminiscent of the core of the story. At least, it feels this way for me, because I first started this entire series wanting to explore Ivan’s acceptance of his sexuality amidst a world that condemns people like them. Then the _setting_ got into the picture and the plot changed, but. This one makes me feel like I’m bracing myself when I look back at the ten chapters. There’s much sentimentality, there.  
>  3) Oh god I’m sorry for the excessive prose. So, so sorry.  
>  4) VE Day is celebrated on 9 May in the Soviet Union but 8 May in others. East Germany celebrated the Day of Liberation on 8 May until 1967, and once more during the 40th anniversary in 1985. They only celebrated the Day of Victory on 9 May once, in 1975 in the Soviet-style.  
>  5) Therefore I queued this on Tumblr to post on 8 May, 23:59, UTC+2, but AO3 can't queue, so I guess this is close enough.  
> 6) At least it's cute.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure there is no way any of them could have gotten away with _any_ of this in reality, but _artistic liberties._
> 
> Anyway, ideally this would have been published next week or something after I sort out some plot thing, but if I sit on this any longer then _nothing_ is getting published. So.

"That's a lot of books," Gilbert mutters, running a finger down the spines.

"My mother's," Ivan explains, watching as Gilbert tugs one out. He rests his weight on the edge of the desk. Watching now, Gilbert when he's strip down to his shirt and slacks, without the usual layers they don when outside, Ivan can see the strong lines of his shoulders, the lean muscles and strength that marks a grown man. "She salvaged these from the ruins of Leningrad before everything is burnt."

Documentation has always been rare in the Soviet states. Unlike the Germans, who kept records of their observations, secrets in the Soviet Union preferred to be passed by mouth and stored in the head. Paper trail is a deadly loophole, after all. That Pap condones these diaries are already a huge risk.

"I used to keep diaries when I was a kid too." Gilbert's face pales as he flips through the pages. "I never knew that this happened."

"You won't have." Ivan picks the book from Gilbert's hands. " _But I am among people,_ " he translates. Ivan remembers the first time he reads this, the tired finality of the words shaking his younger self to the core and conjuring the image of a young person with dark eyes too old and a weak smile too wry, with Mama's steel and Pap's grimness. He snaps the diary shut and meets Gilbert's stare. "Let this be a secret between us."

"I wasn't expecting the family of Mr Dutiful to engage in illegal practices."

"Is that a yes or a no?" Ivan slides it back in place. He pushes the shelves back behind the more innocuous literature and documents. "Some things ought to be remembered."

"Especially when it hits too close to home, huh," Gilbert murmurs. "Your family is much more complicated than I've expected."

"Yes, or no?"

"Yes, asshole," says Gilbert, "yes, I'll keep your secret. There's never any doubt anyway."

Ivan smiles. He reaches out, a thumb tracing the edges of Gilbert's lips. Gilbert's mouth parts - just a little, his tongue darting, as though a dare. Ivan digs his nail in. There's something about the moonlight that draws the tender and the secretive out into the open, the quiet more meaningful than the daylight can ever manage. "Thank you."

"You never have to thank me," Gilbert murmurs, tugging at Ivan's hand to kiss his thumb's knuckle. Then he draws it in his mouth.

A whim, and Ivan grabs Gilbert's jaw, thumb pressing against the back of teeth and gum. It earns him a glare, but Ivan can't quite bring himself to care. "I want to," he tells Gilbert seriously. Then he lets go. Gilbert's jaw snaps shut. "Come on," he says, "let me read you some Pushkin."

"Seriously?"

"I'll be more impressed if you can quote Russian love poetry while jacking me off," says Ivan, "maybe save some of your tricks for next time, won't you?"

Gilbert stares at him for so long that Ivan is starting to chide himself for overstepping. "You," says Gilbert, finally, "are very persuasive."

"Part of the job description."

Gilbert grins. "Come on, give me that sappy poetry then."

-

Sasha raises an eyebrow. "Date last night?"

"Maybe." Ivan shrugs, slipping off the first on the stacks of folders that Sasha is holding. Sasha swears, struggling to hold onto the remaining ones as they stalk down the corridors. "How do you know it's a date and not just hanging out?"

"With you two, it's always a date," Sasha grouses. That is true: Ivan has always thought so. In fact, Gilbert's about confessed the same thing last night. "Are you smiling? God, you are. Disgusting."

"Shut up, Sasha," Ivan mutters, placing the folder back on the stack. "Shred that top one later, would you? We need to up our security: Feliks has gotten the higher-ups spooked. Too many security loopholes." A pause. "Pap's _very_ stressed."

Sasha snorts. "We _are_ in the city that is the most poignant symbol of the Cold War," he points out, but before he can continue, Dima shouts from behind, "Hey, Vanya, wait up!"

They both turn, and the next thing he knows, Dima is swinging at him.

Ivan dodges instinctively.

"What the fuck?" Ivan hears Sasha shouts, staggering away as he struggles to balance the documents. Dima roars and punches again; this time Ivan grabs his wrist. 

Pain and fury are swirling in the dark depths of Dima's eyes that knock the breath out of Ivan's lung while Dima lashes out further, screaming and hysterical, throwing a punch with his free hand that doesn't connect as Ivan shoves him back, before the other guards intervened and held him back, Sasha barking instructions in the background because he _can't_ put down nor pass off documents that sensitive with just about anyone. Dima's blabbering, something about Rosa, and Ivan _knows._

And he thought he can hold onto the peace for a moment longer. He wasn't expecting it to come to a head so quickly.

"I couldn't tell you," Ivan tries, "I'm not sure myself."

"You could have warned me!" Dima howls. "I didn't even get to say goodbye!" Then he kicks.

Dima manages to wriggle himself forward and swings hard; Ivan parries and wrestles him back, but Dima _bites_. The adrenaline runs high and the pain stings, instincts kicking in and one of the punches finally contact, hard and right below his left eye, and this is the first moment that this fight feels real, violence with stakes in the way that training sessions can't ever emulate. Ivan can end this quick, really, twist and hold Dima down like his training has taught him, but a distant corner of his mind whispers about guilt and about brotherhood, and Ivan... Ivan hesitates.

Dima grabs at Ivan's lapels. "How dare you," he hisses, "where's your fucking heart, Vanya?"

Ivan freezes.

Someone screeches; some others managed to pull them apart, and another throws a punch so hard that there is a loud snap and stuns Dima long enough for them to handcuff him.

"Fuck you," Dima spits, dizzy and stumbling and Ivan mutters to one of the guards to get a doctor in to check Dima for a concussion. "Fuck liars. Fuck _traitors -_ oh god, Rosa, that beautiful bitch." He slips, and the guard holding him - Ivan sees now, it's Roman, grim and tired, yanks Dima up. "Hey, Vanya," he bites out, grinning even as Roman drags him away, "you think you're so good, sticking to regulations even when it's your best fucking friend? You think you're above us because you have a _lifetime_ of training? Because you're not, you dick, you're gonna get bitten in the ass too. You think your reporter can't see through you, huh, that he won't milk you until he finally gets _that fucking_ _emigration pass?_ Because that's what they _all_ want, and you should have _known better_!"

"Sir," says Karl, grimacing as he watches Ivan rubs at the bruise that's rapidly forming. "Do we mark it down as insubordination?"

"No," replies Ivan. Sasha is still holding the pile of folders at the side, and somehow, Ivan finds it hilarious, so he laughs. Karl looks at him like he's mad. "No," he says, when he calms down somewhat. "Shred his attendance today. He's taking a week off because of stress from domestic affairs. We'll keep this off the book."

"But -"

"Karl," Goga (with an E, his brain supplies, and this makes Ivan cracks up again) warns.

"I just," Karl says helplessly. "I don't understand."

"Sometimes," Goga E says, "not everything is about the big picture. Some things are personal, and they _remain_ personal. Don't question orders."

Karl doesn't look any less miserable, but he salutes before scrambling off.

There is a pregnant pause before Sasha speaks. "So," says Sasha, "I'll leave these in your office?"

"Yeah," says Ivan, tiredly. "Yeah, follow me. Goga, stop gawking." Goga E hovers nervously. "Also, get me a pack of ice."

A salute. "Yessir."

\- 

A memory: Ivan was thirteen when Pap moves them to Moscow.

Ivan has always been something of a chubby kid, with his cherubic apple cheeks and his stubby fingers that Mama calls strong and nimble; it's not necessarily a bad thing, per se. Grandparents find it cute. Adults find it cute. It's perhaps the results of the memories of food shortages, that seeing wholesome, healthy kids is still so precious to so many; and while Ivan has never been popular amongst kids _his_ age (he really moves around _too much)_ , at least he can soak up the coos and caresses of the grown-ups.

But Ivan's thirteen, and he's grown too tall, too broad, too wide, with gangly limbs and towering shoulders that he hunches into himself ( _elbows in) -_ yet he still hasn't shed his baby fats. It's embarrassing. It makes him too big, takes up too much space for an outcast who wants nothing more to fit in. Even in Moscow, with all its diversity and greatness, Ivan stands out.

He squats in the park nearest to the Lubyanka (the one that Pap walks past every night long after moonrise, where he'll pick up Ivan and they will walk home together, hand-in-hand, father and son, legacy after legacy), trying to free a stray puppy from where it's all tangled up in the bushes, when a young voice whispers, "What are you doing?" 

Ivan startles. Apparently, that jolt of movement is all it needs to loosen the tangles enough for the puppy to dart out. The young boy yelps in surprise as Ivan dodges; the puppy scrambles between them and away. 

"What's that?" the boy continues, staring off into the dark. 

"What are you doing here alone," Ivan accuses, "it's already so late."

"Well, what are _you_ doing here then?" the boy retorts.

Ivan later learns that his name is Dimitri, _call me Dima._ Even at thirteen, Dima has been one of those beautiful kinds of boys with his dark, southern charm that can enthral with a single grin. But for now, Ivan simply slouches and refuses to meet Dima's eyes as he mumbles, "I'm waiting for Pap."

"Oh ok," says Dima. "I'm waiting for my Otets too."

This strikes Ivan as weird, because most people call their father _papa_ and not the more formal _otets. "_ He works late too?"

"No," says Dima, "he's crying back home. I live there -" He points into the distance. "Mat died, and Otets can't stop crying."

Ivan shifts uncomfortably. "Ok." 

Dima studies him for a long while. "Hey," he begins slowly, "aren't you the new boy in school?"

Ivan curls further into himself.

"I remember you!" Dima suddenly cries. "You're that officer's son!" He clasps a hand on his shoulder, and Ivan trembles. Dima doesn't notice. "Everyone was trying to figure out why you're here and not like, home-schooled or in some military boarding school or something."

Ivan doesn't want to explain that he's trying to put aside his privileges in favour of starting from the ground up like everyone else. He flushes, hiding his nose. 

"Why are you so shy?" Dima complains. He tugs at Ivan's shoulder. "Hey, we should stick together tomorrow."

Ivan stares up in bewilderment.

"Come on, don't give me that look," Dima, who is now only a boy, continues. "Name's Dimitri - see you tomorrow, yeah?"

And tomorrow came, and Dima doesn't mention last night, only accepts Ivan into his circle without a word. Dima in the day lacks the heavy depression of Dima in the night, a puss in boots that drawls and dances and is loved by everyone.

But at night - at night it's different. At night it's the two of them against the world: he waits with Ivan at the park, two teenage boys drawing suspicious gazes but too well-behaved to give evidence for otherwise. They don't talk about family (or the worse parts of it) but they talk about everything else.

It's nice, somewhat; it's different. Somehow change creeps up on him now that he has a friend to belong to. It's not necessarily a bad thing, change; that's the first time this holds through for Ivan. That's someone you can trust, someone to exchange secrets and tales with, and maybe that's how it works, to have a friend that can knock on the layers of your shell and says, "It's alright, I'm here," and Ivan will peek out, will see another man sitting on the shards of his own eggshell, and learns what it's like to straighten the lines of his back and assume his place in the world with his head held up high because now he _belongs_.

(This is what Ivan remembers: laughter, the warmth of the sunny south radiating from the depths of Dima's big heart, a hand on the back that promises companionship, the end of loneliness, a fork in the road of his life and Dima at the middle of it, saying, "Come on, follow me," and Ivan did. 

This is what Ivan remembers: people who shaped his life. He wants to grab Dima and shakes him hard, shakes him with all the anguished fury in the world and screams, _do you know how important you were to me? Do you know that you were a friend when I needed it most? Do meteors know the impact they leave behind, the crater; do asteroids know the life they'll create when they crash? Do you ever pause and look at the world you light up with your radiance, or do you not care about the lives you touch, like the Sun never cared about the magic of its rays? Do you?_

 _Do you know at all?_ )

-

At the very end in the corner sits Dima in his cell, holding an ice pack to his face. A nod, and the lock opens with a heavy _chink,_ before Ivan enters.

"You look like shit," Ivan says as way of introduction. The door swings shut behind him, and then timely relocked.

Dima's smile is two parts bitter and one part tired. "You don't look so peachy yourself. Is the migraine getting worse?" He shifts for Ivan to settle beside him. "Sorry about that." He gestures towards the darkening bruise.

Ivan doesn't answer. He pats his pockets. "Cigarettes?" he offers, and supplies the lighter when Dima takes it.

"Can I tempt you to have a smoke?"

"I quitted." Mostly. "You know cigarettes worsen headaches - and they are headaches. I'm too young to be getting migraines." Most times, it's the choice between the suffocation of stress versus the incessant pain; so far, stress is still winning out as the more manageable one.

Dima shrugs as though he's too tired to bother arguing semantics. "Yet you still carry a packet around with you," Dima mocks. He inhales, long and slow. His eyes are covered with red veins. "Let me guess: your boy smokes?"

He's referring to Gilbert: Dima calls him a reporter when he's annoyed, and Ivan's boy when he's not. Both doesn't reflect well on what Dima thinks of Gilbert. At first, Ivan has thought it an effect of jealousy. He voices this out once, but Dima only laughed and called him a lovesick horse that's willingly wearing blinkers. 

"Social smoker," Ivan allows. Dima gives him a hard look. "He's only asked me for a cigarette twice."

"Sure." Dima rests his elbows on his knees, cigarette dangling between his thighs. They both watch the spark for a while in silence; perhaps if Ivan concentrates hard enough, he can hear the sound of burning. Then he laughs, because that's stupid, there's no way he can hear shit. Dima doesn't laugh along nor does he ask why Ivan's being a fool. Instead, he says, "I'm not sorry about what I said about him."

"He's not," Ivan tries, "he's not looking to emigrate. He has family here."

"And he has family across the wall too," Dima points out flatly. "Look, I don't _hate_ him or anything, and I know you smile more genuinely since you met him -"

"I do?"

"- but my point is," Dima continues, "you need to stop kidding yourself. He's a smart guy; you can see that, I can see that. No matter how much he _likes_ you, he's not going to risk his whole future to stay with you."

"He turned down a promotion."

"Cutting ties," Dima dismisses. 

"I've searched his apartment before."

"Vanya," Dima argues, "look at yourself: will you leave anything incriminating unburnt?"

Ivan sighs. "He's not the enemy."

"I'm not saying that he is," Dima states, calm and logical, and Ivan wants to hit him. "I'm saying that he has to think for himself too. It is... it's nothing personal."

 _Oh._ "Dima, you're leaving?"

Dima averts his gaze. "I don't know," he admits, "I've been thinking about it - about, about a reassignment. After last year-"

"It blew over," Ivan interrupts urgently, "didn't it?"

"Yeah." Dima takes another drag of his cigarette, before dropping it onto the ground to stomp it out. Ivan passes him another one. "I mean, _I_ don't care about what's going on because I _feel_ more Russian than Georgian - because fuck, I've spent my whole _life_ in Moscow! The only connection I have with _Georgia_ is my grandmother."

Ivan smiles weakly. "You love your grandmother," he reminds, "I remember."

Dima shrugs. "She's a strong woman, she can look after herself."

"But you're still going back," Ivan says, and it must be the decades-long friendship that allows Ivan to finish Dima's thoughts. "With your parents gone, and now Rosa - there's nothing left for you here."

"I still have you."

Ivan snorts. "That's gay."

"Shut up, you know what I mean." Dima kicks him. Ivan slaps the back of his head. "I wonder what it must feel like to outlive your children."

"At least you're still alive," Ivan says, not unkindly. Dima smirks wryly while wriggling his cigarette. "By the time your vices catch up with you, she'll be ninety and dead."

"Maybe she'll live up to a hundred."

"If she does, it'll be out of spite to see _your_ children." Ivan shivers, and this draws a laugh out of Dima. "Maybe what you need is to meet more people. Or maybe you can talk to Natasha. You broke her heart, you know."

 _That_ story has its roots in the midst of an early spring, featuring an overly eager Natasha experiencing her first budding of puberty, and many, many kittens. It's adorable. It's also mortifying. "Oh god." Dima runs a hand down his face. "That's a schoolgirl's crush." His ears are burning.

"Maybe now that Rosa didn't work out, you can marry into the family."

Dima visibly pales. "Marry _into_?!" Dima shrieks. "Age _difference_ , Vanya!"

Ivan raises both hands. "It's not that bad: when Pap and Mama met, Mama is only eighteen and they're five years apart."

"Oh my god."

"I'm just saying." A pause. "Speaking of your many charms, Mr Casanova - so about you and Petto: you called him _baby bird_?"

"What about it?"

"You trying to seduce him the same way you try to charm everything with two feet into falling in love with you?"

Dima startles and almost falls from his seat. "What? No! I am -" he falters."I was with Rosa, remember? Anyway, we're both straight." The sentence ends with an abruptness that hints at the unsaid, the emptiness left hanging that whispers in the absences, _not like you._

Ivan ignores that. "Oh really? Petto seems to idolise you."

"It's a schoolboy's crush," Dima dismisses.

"Like how Natasha's is a schoolgirl's crush?"

"Oh shut up," Dima threatens. Ivan grins innocuously. "It's not like that: he's like a little bird - Petto the _Ptitsa,_ still learning to stretch his wings and learn to fly."

"Poetic. Very Romantic figure-"

" _Shut up."_

Chuckles; the quiet that the conversation lapses into this time is less uncomfortable and more wistful. Ivan stares at his watch, a thumb rubbing at its chipped edges. "You know, Petto asked me what's gonna happen to Feliks."

"Huh." Dima sounds uncomfortable. This is an ugly topic, an untouchable white elephant that unfortunately for all, Ivan wants to spear. "I still can't believe we have a traitor in our midst. The background checks have been so rigorous. How did he...?"

Ivan knows that they are both thinking about the last one, the one that Pap makes Ivan put down. That one has been an attempted defection, a call too close, a heart too weak - they caught him at the border. Feliks's case is clearly not a defection. "They just concluded the investigation. Apparently Feliks killed the actual Felix and assumed his identity."

Dima shivers. "That's one way of slipping in." He clears his throat. "So what did you tell Petto?"

"I told him he'll live."

Dima snickers. "Honestly, though. What's gonna happen to him?"

"Curiosity killed the cat," Ivan warns.

Dima rolls his eyes. "What can I do, stage an intervention?"

He's not wrong: there may be nothing to lose, since it's not like the information can have any impact on decisions already made. "It's off to the camps for him. If he's dead then he'll be viewed as a martyr in the eyes of the rebels. They can't have that."

"But leaving him alive is a risk," Dima points out, guessing Ivan's thoughts. Or maybe they have the same idea - a decade of friendship, _et al_. "What if it's like Khruschev all over again, with all the _de-Stalinisation_ and shit - just wait for the election of the next leader trying to break free from Brezhnev's cult of personality."

Ivan snorts. "He is quite elderly now, isn't he?" Ivan does a quick calculation in his head. "Seventy-three, no - seventy-two going on seventy-three?"

"Ancient," Dima agrees, "like my grandma. Party will be looking for a successor anytime now." Then, more seriously, he makes sure to catch Ivan's gaze. "Watch your head."

Ivan doesn't quite smile at that. "Yeah." He clears his throat. "You too."

Dima finishes off his second cigarette and leans back on his palm. "I think I'll be fine," he says, glancing out and through the bars, eyes distant and tainted with something Ivan hesitates to call mournful, "I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think you need a break," Ivan finally manages.

Dima looks at him, and his smile reminds Ivan uncomfortably of defeat. It's not a look he sees often; it's a look he sees in Mama when she is lost in her melancholia, in veterans burdened with bitter horrors - even in Ira, the fierceness in her eyes that challenges the tired slope of her shoulders, weighed down by unseen loads.

( _It is_ , Pap once whispers in those bright nights, back when he still tucks Ivan into bed, _the finality of history_.)

"Yeah," Dima says, "yeah, I think I do," and that is the last time they talked before Dima is stationed back in Tbilisi, his distant hometown that exists only as fuzzy childhood memories.

-

It takes a whole week before Ivan decides to look for Gilbert.

The bruise, unfortunately, has faded into some ugly palette of purple and green. Pap has looked at him with something like understanding, and Ivan knows, at least, that Dima will be fine no matter where he goes.

("It's normal to feel sad," Mama says, stroking his hair as he lies on her lap, suddenly feeling very young and very tired, that first night. "You love him, don't you?"

"What," says Ivan. In hindsight, maybe his first thought shouldn't be Gilbert.

"Dima," says Mama, "he's like family. A brother. You are now mourning his absence, yet you understand that everyone has to let family go. Nevertheless, you are still upset."

It is strangely sobering, that Mama says this about Dima but not Ira. He shifts, trying to sit up, but Mama only hushes him. "We didn't mourn Ira because there is fresh hurt to soothe the pain of her departure," she whispers, hearing his unspoken protests, "you will understand when you're older."

"I'm already twenty-three." He contemplates this a while. "And twenty-four on paper." 

"To a parent, you're always a child," says Mama. She covers his eyes with her eyes. It's warm but strong and rough, the hands of a woman who lived a hard life. "Sleep," she commands, pressing a kiss between his eyebrows, where the worse of the pain flares. Then she hums, a lullaby that her own mother sang for her in those cold, long days that she can barely remember:

 _La da dee da, la da dee da, bayushki bayu._ )

Ivan must be lucky, because Gilbert is just down the corner chatting with the baker's daughter who lives across his apartment block, trying to convince her something about letting him sneak into this underground concert or something. If the small smile on her face is anything to go by, Gilbert is on his way to success - _that_ there is a display of the persuasive skills of being a reporter. Ivan waits at the corner, watches until the daughter laughs and nods her pretty head, Gilbert grinning brighter than the sun as he does a fist-pump, before  taking a casual step backwards while he waves goodbye.

Then he turns and catches sight of Ivan, lurking like a long shadow of late evenings, and his eyes widen.

"Holy shit, Ivan," he hisses when he approaches. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Ivan remembers to smile. "I ran into a wall."

Gilbert does not look like he believes him one bit. "Stop smiling," he commands. Ivan drops it, a little. "You're always smiling," Gilbert accuses, "even when it's empty. You're still smiling now. Stop that."

"Why?"

"Because it's creepy," Gilbert admits. "I bet you're the type who smiles even when he's angry."

"Maybe that's just how I look."

"Yeah, right." Gilbert reaches out. His fingers hover over the bruise on Ivan's left cheekbone, not quite brushing yet tender all the same when he rubs at the edges.

Ivan makes sure not to flinch.

"Come on," Gilbert says, tugging at his elbow. "I've got this balm that can make almost any hurt go away. It'll help your bruise fade."

"I sure hope so," says Ivan, "it's clashing with the colours of my uniform."

Gilbert snorts. His gait as he steps up the stairs is slow and steady. "Your uniform is dark khaki with blue pipings and gold insignia."

" _Exactly._ "

"Ahh," says Gilbert, lips twitching, "you're not a fan of gradients?"

"Show me more of that cheek and we can find out if you like it as much when it's on yourself."

"I don't know: I think it's karma." Then, with his voice lowered, he elaborates, "I couldn't wear anything with a loose collar _for a week._ I thought I would suffocate."

"It's not that bad," says Ivan, "it could be July."

"In that case, I'm emigrating to Siberia," Gilbert grunts. He unlocks his apartment door. This scene is starting to feel painfully familiar, this; Ivan suddenly feels an overwhelming sense of dread.

"What's wrong?" Gilbert gestures at the doorway. "Go sit down. I'll get the balm."

The single chair is apparently broken, so Ivan sits gingerly on Gilbert's bed, which is - which is stupid, because Ivan has _slept_ on this bed.

"Here," says Gilbert, tossing the balm over before sitting down cross-legged beside him. Ivan unscrews it; there are deep finger trenches in the cream. "Just slather it on. You bring it home and apply it everyday for a week."

Ivan abides wordlessly. The balm tingles; almost painfully so, before fading into a cool buzz. "Thank you."

"It's alright." Gilbert waits for Ivan to screw it shut. "Want to talk about it?"

"No." Ivan rolls the balm in his hand. "There's nothing to talk about." Gilbert tenses, and this is when Ivan figures that maybe that's not a good way to phrase it. "I mean I had proper closure. It's fine."

"If you say so." Gilbert doesn't reach out for him. There's something about daylight that pulls a plastic sheet between interactions, spaces where private intimacy used to exist. Gilbert tucks his right feet under his left knee and fiddles with a loose thread. "Did you know that when I was a kid, I used to get into the worse scraps?"

Ivan imagines a smaller Gilbert, with more superficial bravado and much, much more vocal. "I can imagine."

"Well yeah, so I keep getting injured." Gilbert scratches the back of his neck. "And Luddy will patch me up, because he's the _good_ son who stays out of trouble. Mutti was concerned that he's too quiet for his age but, eh, see how it all turns out fine."

"You are very close to your family." This is a statement, not a question.

"Like you're not." Gilbert smiles, a little fond, and with the sunshine filtering through the blinds, Gilbert's face is glowing like an art piece: lashes transparent and skin golden, eyes like a ruby held under the spotlight, the curl of the lips like a leaf unfurling in the sun. Ivan's breath catches. "Family is a strange thing, isn't it?"

Family is an unbreakable bond forged with blood. This, perhaps, is what divides family found and family borned: the impacts take root from either the genes or the memories, but both are gouges in the mould that fashions the points in the crossroads that makes him himself and his life as it is. 

"It's sometimes everything," answers Ivan. He recalls an old conversation left unfinished, the one where he draws out Gilbert's reply as inferred from the lack thereof, because indecision is also a sort of answer. "I'll choose family too, I think."

"Ominous," says Gilbert, "but relatable." He sucks on his bottom lip. "It doesn't always have to be, though."

"You think?"

"Yeah. We all got our own decisions to make and our own lives to lead, don't we?"

And Gilbert looks at him with so much fervent determination that Ivan doesn't know what to do. It makes him think of defecting, running off somewhere far, far away, maybe to the tip of Chukotka - no, he doesn't think Gilbert can survive winters _that_ cold. Or maybe sunny Krasnodar, the beautiful, green southern city that charms both locals and foreigners alike. But most of all, he wants to run off to somewhere far from the reaches of the world, of politics and everything else, maybe some small island in the tropics that is too insignificant for anyone to care about two stupid men that want more than the world is ready to give. 

"Don't leave me," Ivan blurts. Gilbert startles. Ivan wants to cry. "I don't want to be alone."

"What are you on about?" Gilbert sounds bewildered. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You will; everyone will have to go someday. They have their responsibilities."

"Well yeah, but Mutti is still here and I got a stable job and all. And - and, well." Gilbert clears his throat. "My place is right here with you." He blinks, and rapidly flushes. "Fuck, that sounds hella cheesy, I take that back. Oh god that's embarrassing, erase it from your mind -"

Ivan chuckles; it sounds forced even to him. Gilbert's eyes soften. "Hey, I promise, ok?" he soothes, "I won't leave. I'm not gonna leave you alone."

(And here's the thing that no one knows: Ivan is _terrified_ of being alone, the dread of loneliness a crushing wave that drives him single-mindedly towards success because he _craves_ that warm approval like a dog craves pets in the head.

He's a fool.)

"Let's take it one step at a time," he says. Smiles like it's a joke, and Gilbert laughs.

-

If laughter is a picture, Gilbert's laughter will be bright and shocking, neon lights with jagged edges. It is the memory of it resounding that Ivan tucks in his chest as he walks home, later, in the evening when the sun dips lazily into the skyline.

At the juncture right after he turns, Ivan is struck with a strange emptiness, a minor kind of abnormality that needles incessantly at the back of the mind in an otherwise normal situation. Ivan thinks of psychological harassment, of gaslighting and surveillance, and it is only after he reaches the end of the street and at his doorstep that he remembers the benevolent smile of Manfred while waving to Ivan.

It's a curious sort of emptiness, Ivan thinks. The kind that is evoked when you discover change and realise that what is once your world in childhood has all gone: the childhood home, the familial warmth, your dead grandma's signature dish, your best friend.

There's a cut-out hole where a man once stood, waving; Ivan doesn't know what to think, so he nurtures Gilbert's laughter in his chest, fuzzy and free.

-

"Roman, do you know why I called you to my office today?"

"N-no?"

"Because you're promoted. You're now Sasha's understudy. Congratulations."

"What!"

"Sasha will brief you on the rest. Now come closer so that I can change your shoulder insignia."

"Wait, no - I mean, you're promoting _me?_ But why me? What about Goga Y? I mean, he's Slavic and I'm not and I, I also heard he's your platoon mate when you're still conscripts and -"

"Roman?"

"Yessir?"

"Do you want your promotion?"

"Yessir!"

"Then shut up and _c_ _ome get your shoulder boards._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dima ~~looks like a younger version of that young stalin pic you see going around~~ is loosely based on the two romances (lovers? crushes?) of Grand Duchess Tatiana Nikolaevna Romanov: Dmitri Yakovlevich Malama (he gave her two puppies) and Vladimir Kiknadze (the mysterious charming pianist)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11k, yall
> 
> Djadja - uncle  
> Tjotja - aunt
> 
> *Both are not necessarily biological; for instance, it can refer to the kindly storekeeper down the street that always gives the kids extra candy that everyone affectionately calls uncle.

There is a stiff lump on the slope of his shoulders, the part that Ivan vaguely recalls is called the trapezius muscle. It's sore and it hurts when Ivan rolls his shoulders, and Gilbert grimaces when he pokes it.

"Not that I don't like hard muscles," he comments, kneading it, "but what have you been doing for your muscles to get this tight?"

"Slouch, probably," Ivan manages, wincing as Gilbert struggles to work out the knot.

"Really? Because I think it's 'cause you're too stressed," Gilbert chides. He switches tactics and digs his elbow in instead; Ivan resists the urge to whimper. "You're lucky that I know how to do massages, or you're going to end up with back problems when you're older."

"Forgot older: I already have back problems now," Ivan grumbles, then hisses at a particularly rough kneading. 

There's also the headache that he doesn't tell Gilbert: his head pounding to the beat of his heart. It'll be nice if Gilbert can knead it away too, but such pains can only be alleviated, not eradicated; Ivan's learnt as much. He's already learnt to ignore such inevitablities as much as is possible. 

"How do you manage to destroy your body this much," Gilbert grouses, "what the heck have you been doing?"

Frankly? Nothing much, just that a few high-ranking officers decide to take a trip down over because apparently interest in Berlin's strategic importance is renewed again and Ivan has to work with Pap to coordinate with the personal bodyguards and the German security personnel, how fucking fun. He doesn't tell Gilbert as much, because that's just asking for trouble. "Guarding duties," he says instead, which is technically not a lie. "Many guarding duties."

"Is that why you come over right after your shift is over without even bothering to head home to take a nap?" Ivan protests that he is still too wired up to sleep. "I can tell; you need to relax. Your job is stressful _and_ boring."

"It is," Ivan confirms, "there's not even a single assassination attempt." But the amount of bureaucratic coordination has assassinated his will to live. "I'm tired. I want a reassignment."

Gilbert laughs. "Then what will you do?"

"I'll be a superspy - I'll be fucking Stierlitz." He hopes whichever Stasi officer listening to this knows enough Russian pop culture to get a laugh out of this. 

Gilbert evidently does not. "Who's Sterlitz?"

"Never mind, I-" He's cut off as Gilbert finally works the knot out of his shoulder, a pained yelp before slumping over onto Gilbert's bed. "Ow."

"If you fall asleep like that, you'll wake up with a sore neck."

"I'm not sleeping," Ivan complains lazily, "who's sleeping? The sun is nice and bright today, I'm not wasting the day sleeping."

"You Russians and your sunshine," Gilbert mocks, "it's not a Siberian winter, you know."

"One: it's the British and their sunshine, and secondly," Ivan retorts, "what about you Germans and your _nudity_."

"Oh. You want to go to a nudist beach?"

" _No_."

"Prudes," Gilbert snorts, flopping down beside him. "You sure you don't want to nap? You can have the bed: I'm heading out."

Ivan immediately pushes himself up on his elbow. "Head out? Where?" 

"Down to the Weisser See."

"That lake?" Ivan wrinkles his nose. "What's there to do?"

Gilbert waves flippantly. "Parks," he begins, holding up a finger, "history and heritage, nature, people - tada!"

"Oh, you want to do landscape photos."

"That too," Gilbert agrees. "Have I ever told you? I want to document every single part of East Berlin. Can't believe it took me this long to get to this one."

That's a curious one. Gilbert has said many things about his love for photography, and this variation is the first of its kind. "Why?"

"I want to preserve a memory of all these before they are gone." He shrugs, dismissive, but there's longingness in his eyes - a strange melancholy uncharacteristic on a man as boisterous as Gilbert. "You know how it is: places develop and transform over time, and the old have to make way for the new. It's just... I thought of Mutti telling me about Dresden once being the Florence of the North, and I thought: I want my grandkids to see the beauty of the world that I'm looking at."

"That's poignant," Ivan replies, "write that down for the press release of your next exhibition."

"Don't mock me." Gilbert yanks the blanket sharply from under Ivan; Ivan stumbles off the bed and rolls to a crouch on the floor.

"I'm not mocking you - I'm serious. That was beautifully put. Write it down."

Gilbert snorts. "If it means so little to me that I would forget if I didn't write it down, then that's not the essence of the exhibition at all."

There is something in Gilbert's tone - something grim and too serious, that makes Ivan focus and watch Gilbert closely. Gilbert tenses his shoulders. "What?" he snaps.

"Nothing," says Ivan, "just - this project means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

"It means something," Gilbert answers, flippant, before making his way to the cupboard to fish out his equipment. Ivan gets up, and although what he wants to do is to draw Gilbert into a hug, to wrap his arms around Gilbert's waist and tucks Gilbert's back against his own chest, Ivan knows better. Instead, he helps Gilbert make the bed like a housewife with a propensity for orderliness, then kneads the pain at his own temples with his knuckles that quickly transforms into big sweeps at his fringe when Gilbert turns back around.

"So you're coming along?" Gilbert asks, adjusting his straps, his satchel filled and camera looped around his neck. 

Ivan shrugs. "As you said: I need a break," he answers, and that's that, then.

-

The park has only smatterings of visitors, and the skies are blue and bright and accompanied with a calm breeze, the gentleness of wind that ruffles their hair and kisses their cheeks. There are even birds chirping. 

The scene is so comfortable, so mundane, so, so _edenic_. Ivan hates it.

"Nice weather today," Ivan comments, watching Gilbert trots ahead.

"Bullshit: it's awesome weather," Gilbert corrects, "holy shit, did you see that?"

"See what?"

"That man walking five dogs," Gilbert replies, awed. "He's living _the dream_." He takes a hurried snap. "Wait, let me go talk to him."

Ivan walks down the trail of the most deserted side of the lake, toeing the edges of the coastline without getting his boots wet. There is a pier at the end; Ivan sits down on it, legs dangling above the water.

He rubs between his eyes before leaning back on his palms. It is a good day, the kind that spurs content in people's hearts and has them waxing poetics about nature's glory. It won't look out of place for some retired old man to bring his grandson fishing here, right at this very spot; he remembers Djadja Nikolai and their fishing trips down by the stream. It was boring, at first, just holding the rod straight; then Djadja switches tactic and takes off his shirt, smoothly netting up a herring.

(Of course, even in that triumphant afternoon, Djadja can't quite keep the grief from his sad eyes. Djadja has always been a sad man: too different to seek comfort in family, but too stubborn to roll over and die. Djadja lives melancholy like it is his ambrosia, lives life like it's a slow suicide, and in the end, when Djadja is found in a dingy motel room with a gun in his hand and blood splattered across the walls, Ivan only felt relief.)

But the point is not Djadja's tragic murmur of a life; the point is that memories of fishing are always accompanied with a rosy sheen for Ivan that speaks of youthful vivacity that matches Gilbert much more than it is ever associated with Djadja, fortunately.

But Weisser See has too many people swimming in it for it to be an ideal fishing location. The fish are probably scrawny. Maybe Ivan can suggest a trip back to Russia; Gilbert is always talking about wanting to travel.

He is broken from his reverie with the sound of a familiar click; look up, and it's Gilbert, grinning down over his camera.

"I thought you stopped doing that?"

"Me?" Gilbert places a hand mockingly on his chest. "Stop taking pictures of you?" His grin widens. "Never."

"That's not fair: I have never taken any pictures of you."

Gilbert laughs. "That's because you're not the photographer." He settles down, letting his feet swing over the water surface, and knocks their ankles together. The quiet that settles is nice and comfortable, and it is all very new for Ivan, a quiet this gentle.

Then Gilbert clears his throat. "Do you want to?" Gilbert dangles his camera. "You can play photographer for a day."

There is really nothing to lose here. Ivan shrugs. "Why not?" Gilbert grins, immediately clamouring to his feet. Ivan follows suit, taking Gilbert's hand to pull himself up. "Thanks."

Gilbert drops his satchel on the pier before looping the camera's strap over Ivan's neck. He briefly explains the basic controls, telling Ivan to aim at some trees and that fountain in the distance before deeming him capable enough of not accidentally destroying the camera with careless fiddling. Gilbert hangs back, now, the horizon of the lake stretching from his ribs a perfect parallel to his outstretched arms. "There you go," he announces, "amateur photographer at work."

Ivan holds the camera up, squinting into the viewfinder. It's a good picture: fair composition, big grin, the light is just right, and yet his fingers hesitate above the shutter. Gilbert starts to frown. "What's wrong-"

Ivan darts forward and shoves Gilbert into the water.

Gilbert _squawks_ when he breaks the water with an embarrassingly huge splash. Ivan hurriedly snaps a few photographs. When Gilbert resurfaces, he's spluttering and his face is red as he shrieks, "Oh the _hell_ with you!"

Ivan continues snapping.

"Hey, stop that!" Gilbert waddles towards the pier. This close to the shore, the water is only waist-high. "Come on, stop-" Ivan shoves Gilbert back into the water when Gilbert tries to get up, snorting when Gilbert slips at the third attempt to claw his way up. "Ivan, fucking stop. You're wasting my film!"

"I'll buy more for you," Ivan promises, still snapping away. 

"Stop snapping, asshole." Gilbert makes to lurch, but Ivan only leans away. And because he can be a little shit, Ivan _tuts_.

"Make me," Ivan retorts, not quite keeping the smug smile away from his face. "You can't drag me into the water with you because I am holding your camera."

"I can still get your pant legs wet," Gilbert retorts, splashing warningly. Ivan takes another step back. "No, I actually can't," Gilbert admits. "You little shit. Help me up."

Ivan stretches out a hand. Just as Gilbert is about to grab it, Ivan snatches his hand back, leaving Gilbert flailing as he tumbles down again with an even bigger splash. 

Ivan _roars_.

"Oh fuck you, Ivan!" Gilbert wipes his face furiously on his equally drenched sleeve. "No, stop - stop laughing, you-"

"I'm sorry," says Ivan, wiping at his eyes, "you make it so easy." Another picture.

"I helped you up, and this is how you treat me? Rude." Gilbert huffs, kicking the water disgruntedly.

"You know you love me regardless," Ivan teases. Gilbert rolls his eyes. "Please let me keep some pictures of this."

"And give you embarrassing materials to blackmail me with?" Gilbert retorts. When Ivan can't stop smiling at him, his glare softens. "Yeah sure, sure; it's your first work as a photographer after all - even if it is at my expense." He splashes water onto the pier. "I am really going to try to get your boots wet."

"I love how you constantly lower your standards for me," Ivan teases, ignoring Gilbert's scowl as he unloops the camera from his neck. Then, turning the camera towards himself and stretching out his arm as far as he can, he crouches at the edge of the pier. "Come on, Gilbert, smile into the camera."

"You bet," Gilbert mutters, waddling over. "I'm going to out-smile you."

"Sure you are." The click of the shutter once. Twice, thrice - and it's done. "In case you blinked."

"You are so full of shit." Ivan ignores him and lowers the camera gingerly onto the satchel. "Hey, don't worry, I never let any of my films get damaged," Gilbert says. There is a gentle tilt at the corners of his mouth that Ivan hesitates to call fondness. "But since you took three, you can pop by my office someday and I'll develop an extra copy of your favourite for you."

"That'll be nice," Ivan agrees. The sun refracts off the drops hanging off Gilbert's hair like dew, small glowing globs of white light condensed. "Come on, let's get you out of the water."

"You will not retract your hand at the last moment," Gilbert threatens, but takes Ivan's hand without hesitation. Gilbert's palms are wet and slimy and Ivan ends up having to grab Gilbert's elbow to pull him out, painfully aware of the water dripping all over. "Look at what you've done."

"I have performed a work of art," Ivan answers solemnly. "A _hilarious_ work of art. It is a commentary on trust issues."

"Hardy ha ha, shut up, Ivan." Gilbert grunts as he wrings the water out of his shirt. It doesn't seem to help much. When he releases it, the shirt slaps wetly back against skin. 

"I'm sorry," says Ivan, earnest. "No wait, I'm not that sorry." 

"You-"

"Sir!" Ivan turns instinctively, and yup, it's for him. There is an unknown guard waving at them before turning around to yell something at... Roman. Huh.

Roman is flushed and flustered as he runs towards them. "Thank god you're here," he manages breathlessly. "I just got a call, and you need to come back to the office right now. There's-" He cuts himself off abruptly when he finally notices Gilbert. "Oh. Hi?"   

Gilbert waves vaguely.

"Give me a moment," Ivan instructs, "and for fuck's sake, someone get him a jacket."

The unknown guard salutes before running off. Roman takes a few steps back, angling his body away in the universal body language of 'don't mind me, just fading into the background right here'. Ivan faces Gilbert. "I'm sorry," he begins awkwardly, "but something urgent's cropped up and I need to-"

"You gotta go." Gilbert nods grimly. "Yeah, I get it."

"I am truly sorry."

"I said _I know_ , Ivan," Gilbert snaps. "Just get to it."

The unnamed guard returns with a thick jacket, probably plucked off some bench somewhere while the owner is off for a swim. Ivan gives an apologetic nod, smiling weakly; he hasn't noticed it earlier, but now there's a forlorn lonesomeness about Gilbert, standing soaked and alone and confused as he stares after them. It's almost _pathetic_ , watching the slight chills of Gilbert's body as water drips off him.

"I'll make it up to you," promises Ivan, and without a second glance backwards, hurries off.  

-

"How did Feliks escape?!" he shouts. Sasha winces and angles away. "How did he escape on our watch? On _my_ watch!"

"I'm sorry, sir," says one of the uniformed guards that Ivan has never bothered learning the name of, "but the prison break was a highly-skilled job. When we-"

"Ivan Mikhailovich?" The officers that interrupt them with their approach are foreign and authoritative in a way that has Ivan squaring his shoulders. "Please follow us this way."

"Sasha, deal with this," Ivan commands before following the officers down the corridor, feeling an inmate on the death row marching his final steps. 

He is lucky to have an interrogation; most failures don't, and their own continued existence is the only proof of the brass's decision to tolerate mistakes. 

Even then, most interrogations go the same way: high-ranking men with their back to the window and the light haloing them, four looming shadows behind an oval table cataloguing your every answer.

Pap is among them. It doesn't seem to matter. Ivan swallows the pulsating heartbeats at the dip of his jugular, and salutes. "Sir."

His captaincy is mentioned (Dryly, "What impressive valour you must have exhibited to be captain at this age.") and his loyalties questioned, a push and forth that has Ivan dully reciting political opinions he can't remember where he heard them from. Pap, probably; Pap taught him most of his world the way Mama's ruthlessness can't. It's the same push and pull that Ivan is drilled to handle - always the same push and pull, and Ivan leaves the room with a final chance and a red cross painted over his heart.

He does not realise he's holding his breath until the door closes behind him. 

-

It takes him too long to notice Sasha waiting for him outside his office.

(Here's a thing that Ivan said that he doesn't remember:

Pap said it first, told this to him, to all of them, once upon a time. Told it to both him and Ira and Natasha, all of them young and huddled around Pap's feet after Pap just read them a story, Mama a shadow in the background watching over them through the corner of her eyes that are sharp as a hawk and sad like Djadja's.

"It is easier to sympathise with the enemy when you haven't seen their cruelty," he has said, Ivan will say in that little room with the oval table, and it will earn that crinkle at the corners of the eyes of the Polkovnik that hints of an ally.

And Ivan, then, a child - Ivan has blinked, wide-eyed and impressionable. "And that is bad?" he asks.

"It makes us complacent," Pap answers, "and we lower our guards too much."

"But what if it is this - this peace that takes away our enemy's cruelty?" Ira presses. She's always been precocious and more sensitive than everyone else. "Maybe we don't see their cruelty because there is no cause to be cruel. Won't that be better for everyone?"

In that dim orange light by the fire, Ivan remembers that Pap's eyes are strangely luminous, light dancing with shadows on Pap's pupils. "Darling," he says, "but peace doesn't last.")"I got us a warrant to rummage through Stasi archives," Ivan reveals, unlocking the door. "I also got myself voluntary work down at the public welfare sector, so it's time to steel myself against angry, hysterical civilians that I have to slough through ineffectual paperwork for."

Sasha grimaces. "And in the meantime," he replies, "I'll dig around and see what they'll try to hide before you waltz in and turn the place over."

"I'm jealous," Ivan retorts dryly. "Really. Your paperwork is so much more important than mine. Speaking of which, I just dug up some files on Feliks that you may want to look over. There can't be a paper trail so you'll have to memorise-"

"Just pass them to me; I'll filter out the details I need." Sasha halts Ivan by clutching on both his shoulders. "But you, sir, need to rest. You look like you hadn't slept in three days."

That's because Ivan hasn't. He's only managed a light doze between his shifts and bureaucratic management, and before that, there was the whole gruelling planning process to get to: sleep hasn't been on the top of Ivan's priorities in quite some while.

"I'll be fine," says Ivan, "back to the topic-"

Sasha grunts threateningly.

"Sasha, I can still mark you down for insubordination."

"Ivan," Sasha interrupts with an impression that can at best be described as disgruntled. "Sir. I'm saying this as a fellow _human being_ , not as a concerned _friend_. You need to look in a mirror and then _go to sleep_."

Ivan winces. "That bad?"

"Worse," Sasha says. He clears his throat, all gruff and squared shoulders. "Trust me to look after the squad for you, sir."

"Don't say that - I may suspect a mutiny."

Sasha snorts. "I got my lone wolf reputation to uphold," he retorts, "can't go all mutinous and become a leader if I still want to allegedly hate everyone."

"My noble vassal, my gallant knight in shiny armour," Ivan teases, "guarding distant lands under my flag."

"Very funny," Sasha replies dryly. Then, sardonically, "My Liege."

Ivan laughs.

-

Ivan is not expecting Mama to look as though on the verge of collapse when he reaches home.

It seems Ivan is not getting his sleep after all.

"What happened?" He hurries to her, lets her clutch onto his arms. "Mama, mama, what's going on?"

"Natshechka is gone!" she wails. "She's run off!" Her eyes widen. "Do you think-"

"No, Mama," he answers too quickly. Both Pap and he have made sure that their work never follows them home, but now with Ira... he's not so sure anymore.

Mama seems to sense his distress, her nails digging deeper. Then, struggling to regain composure, she pulls herself up and flicks away the traces of hysteria off the edges of shining eyes. "Vanya, please find her."

"I will, Mama, I-" He helps her to a seat. "Have you called Pap?"

"Shortly, just before you arrived."

"Ok," says Ivan. "Ok, I'll need to go look for her now, Mama. I'll need to leave."

"Don't go," Mama beseeches helplessly. She's clawing onto his sleeves. "Stay with me."

"I need to leave to find her. I'll get-" Dima, but he's not here anymore, "-Tjotja Masha from next door to stay with you, alright? I think Pap will send some guards over too."

Mama's hands tighten before slowing folding onto her own lap. Ivan pours her a glass of water, first, before leaving the apartment, their own door left wide open, to knock on the neighbour's door. "Tjotja," he greets when Masha opens her door, and Masha is adequately shocked that Mama has been freaking out for the past hour without seeking help from the neighbours.

There is no way to explain trauma to a woman who has never suffered unadulterated desperation, but Masha is a sympathetic soul with a kindness never tested. "I will stay with her for however long she needs," Masha promises.

"Thank you, tjotja," says Ivan with more feeling than he thought himself capable.

He has contacts on the streets, petty delinquents and dangerous gangsters that owed Ivan favours for all the leeway he allowed them. ("You still owe me 37 favours, Kolyan," Ivan points out, earning him a scowl.)

He calls some of the off-duty guards that he can spare on the way to keep an eye out, and by the time he's gotten to the office, Roman has turned up in uniform. "Sir," he greets, a looseness in him that speaks of getting up too early too fast, "what do you need me to do?"

 _Find Natasha_. "Is Sasha here?" 

Roman falters. "I can go get him."

"No, no: let him handle official business." Ivan pinches between his eyes. "Can you get the timetable and rearrange the shifts? Cover for me."

"Yeah, sir, of course." Roman chews on his lip, as though holding back words. When Ivan raises his eyebrows, Roman swallows. "I know now is not the time, sir," he says, "but this whole fiasco is making some of our newer members nervous." He wets his lips. "Especially Karl and Petto. They -" 

"You're right, now is not the time," Ivan interjects. "They'll be fine. See to the shifts."

He twists the key in before Roman can protest, and then the lock clicks and the mind swiftly processes and Ivan -

Ivan stops.

"My office is not locked," Ivan says, a strange calm settling over him. "Someone's been in. Who came to my office while I'm gone?"

"No one, sir," answers Roman, doubts colouring his voice, "maybe Sasha?"

"I really don't have time for this," Ivan murmurs, inching the door open carefully. When nothing happens, he pushes it further apart. "Wait here," he instructs Roman, and swiftly pulls out gloves from his pocket.

On his desk is a thick manila envelope.

Ivan holds his breath.

"Do you think it's a bomb," Ivan finally says, "or a message from Natasha?"

"What if it's from Feliks, sir?" Roman whispers.

Ivan stares at the envelope, then scans the room. He breathes deeply for one, two, ten seconds; then he goes to examine his drawers and cupboards. He's been searched, but the most important documents are still locked away. "Call for the forensics to take a look at it," he commands, mind forcibly blank, and Roman obeys.

-

"Goga," Ivan says, straightening up, and Goga with a Y enters the room with the missives.

"Sir," he salutes. 

(And here is the scene that no one sees: Ivan, slumped over his desk, just a while ago. He feels wrecked. He feels like shit, if said shit has been churned and pounded and then processed into fertiliser and sucked up by the greediest neediest plant to ever exist. 

Even if everything that matters is still kept under lock - even then, he knows that the brass now knows that there are some documents Ivan needs to turn up, secrets that Ivan has to account for. 

It could be worse: Ivan could have left personal pictures lying around, instead of only state-endorsed certificates and recognised achievements. That, then, is future leverage - damning, to let them know that he holds family so dear to his heart: Pap and sir being conflated. Ira actually meaning something to him.

His team and him being that close - especially the old fellows, those that plough through sludge and gritted through the hazing and backed Ivan through his brutal rise.

Gilbert, who's not just a friend, seen through every slight tilt of the head, the comfortable lean into each other's spaces, the unlying eyes that whisper subconsciously to one's instincts that it is something more.

Ivan's hands tremble, just a little. He clenches it.)

"Just leave these here," Ivan instructs. "I'll take a look at them later." After he finds Natasha. "I have a task for you, Goga: guard this office without letting anyone realise that you're watching. Can you do that?"

"Yessir," Goga Y answers stiffly.

There is something about Goga Y's tone that has Ivan looking twice. Ivan gives him a hard look; Goga Y barely reacts. Ivan is strangely reminded of a petulant child. "Goga," he begins, "take a seat."

Natasha will have to wait, Ivan decides anxiously, because above all he is also the leader, and a leader looks after his followers and takes note of jealousy within the ranks. "Goga," Ivan tries, "you've been with me for a long time: do you think Roman is ready for his promotion?"

"I don't see why not."

"Won't you think he needs more experience first?"

"Sir," Goga Y replies, testy, "if you are concerned about my feelings, then don't: I fully accept Roman's promotion."

And that's the opening Ivan needs. "You may accept it," says Ivan, "but that doesn't mean you're happy about it."

"I'm fine," Goga Y grits, "sir."

"No resentment?" Ivan baits. "No questions?"

"What will change if I say that I am upset, sir?" Goga Y snaps. "Will that get me a promotion?"

"No," Ivan answers slowly, "but it can get you an explanation."

"I don't need it. I know why you chose him. He's got the demeanour for it. I don't. I'm not, not _charismatic_ enough." He pauses, suppressing a shudder, and Ivan waits. "You need someone to replace Dima, and Dima's best at people. I'm not someone like that - Roman is."

"I'm sorry," Ivan says, sincerely, "you're a very loyal man, Goga." The oldest friend that Ivan has, now that Dima is gone. Even Sasha, with his steadfast solidness, is someone he found in the latter half of national service, not the brother-in-arms that Dima have pulled into their circle from day one."But I have to think for the team, not just for myself."

"I know, and I don't fault you for it." Goga Y slaps both palms onto his knees. "If that is all, I'll be -"

"There is something else still bothering you," Ivan cuts in. "You're not leaving until you confess everything."

"There's nothing else, sir -"

" _Goga_."

"It's just -" Goga Y visibly swallows. "I just hate that everyone forgets I'm in the squad, first. Having two Gogas? Yeah, that's funny at first, because Dima makes everything funny, but he's gone now and I'm _Goga Y_. Fuck, what a mouthful." He makes to spit, until he recalls that he's in Ivan's office. 

Ivan hasn't thought about it like that, and he says so. "I didn't know," he admits. "I'm sorry that I hadn't notice. Hadn't notice it bothering you."

"I," Goga Y bites out uncomfortably, face flushed with humiliation, "I'm Goga first. I don't want to compromise. Egor -" _Goga E,_ "- can pick another short name."

Ivan doesn't know what to say. "I'll talk to him."

"Yeah. Yeah, that'll be nice." Goga Y stands, clearing his throat. "Thank you, sir."

"It's the least I can do," says Ivan, and that's true, too, for a man like Goga Y.

-

The night is disgustingly chilly, and Ivan is even more disgustingly sweaty from all his running about. 

It is only the dramatic tendencies of fate, then, that Ivan will chance upon a glaring Natasha squatting at the doorsteps of a church while he is soaked in sweat, the church bells chiming the arrival of midnight, and Tolys staring up at Ivan with opaque eyes from beside Natasha.

"Fuck off," says Natasha.

"No will do," says Ivan, "you gave Mama a fright."

"Maybe she'll finally make an expression other than intense calm now," Natasha grumbles. Tolys frowns disapprovingly at her. "Well I'm sorry if I offend your virtuous sensibilities on filial piety."

"Natasha," says Ivan, tiredly, "is this about Ira?"

"Of course this is about Ira!" Natasha cries. "And how none of you fucking cares that she's gone."

"Don't be stupid - of course we do."

"It doesn't look like it!" Natasha yells. "The way you say it makes it sound like you're talking about the weather rather than my sister."

"Natasha-"

"No. I don't want to hear it."

"Natasha," Tolys soothes, "there is no point agitating yourself. Go inside and sit on the pews. I'll talk to him."

"And then you'll tell him to leave."

"I will," says Tolys, "now go inside."

Natasha stomping away will probably appear more effective if she hasn't done so with the grace of a ballerina; downsides of the sky-high heels she wears, Ivan thinks. With her gone, it is like the fall of the curtains - the scene has ended, the suspend-disbelief gone, and a strange chill settles over both of them.

"Tolys," Ivan greets.

Tolys ignores it. "Your own cousin," he accuses, eyes burning in the moonlight, shiny like the rosary he does not believe in that hangs around his neck.

Irony, Tolys is. Ivan never knows what to do with him.

"She broke the law," says Ivan simply, "and she got caught."

“But she's family, and yet you don't even appear the least upset." Tolys shakes his head. "I hate everything you stand for, do you know that?"

"You've said that before." 

"And I mean it each and every time," Tolys replies icily. "Is it any surprise that Natasha ran off?"

"No," Ivan admits, "but running off to a fake layman? That is a first." He runs his eyes up and down Tolys's attire. "So, is the church harbouring traitors now, or is this an infiltration?" He tilts his head in consideration. "Although I supposed this is an infiltration either way: a revolutionary into state-controlled institutions, and a pagan onto Christian grounds."

"What do you want?"

"I'm simply curious,"  says Ivan. "You weren't supposed to ever appear in front of me again. What are you trying to pull, befriending Natasha?"

"I'm not pulling anything; I just thought she needs a friend who isn't one of your crazy family."

" _Ohh_. So you _like_ her." 

Tolys ignores that, too, the same way he ignores semantics in pursuit of his goals. It's a strength, Ivan thinks, a stubborn adaptability that makes Tolys so dangerous and Ivan so fond of him. "German churches are less susceptible to Soviet control," Tolys answers, almost a non-sequitur until Ivan remembers his earlier question. "I'm secure here. Will you take that away from me too?"

Ivan smiles. "You'll know soon enough." Then, quietly, "Will you let me pass?"

Because Ivan knows Tolys and Tolys knows Ivan, much as Ivan loathes to admit, he knows Tolys will relent. Family is family, for both of them, and Natasha's angry lashing out is not a solution to all the creaks in the system that Ivan stands for and Tolys seeks to tear down. Tolys will rather Natasha ignorant but safe, too, the same way Ivan shields her from the consequences of the world he knows.

"We both know Natasha needs to learn to move on," Ivan adds. Mutters, like an afterthought. "Ira never stood a chance the moment she's arrested, you know?"

There is a pregnant pause, something flickering in Tolys's eyes that Ivan doesn't want to examine. "Maybe," says Tolys, body language still stiff, but he's already moving aside. 

It's a truce, of sorts. "Thank you," Ivan whispers as he passes.

He's not sure, but he thinks he hears Tolys bites out, "I don't want your thanks."

Ivan ignores it; he's not sure anyway.

In the dim night, the moon glowing through the window, there is a curious solemnity about the night that makes even the lightest conversation more intimate and grave. The world slows to the milliseconds: quiet, precious.

Natasha sits facing the cross, visage turned towards the ceiling and eyes close, a pearly statue of a saint in repose. She shifts when Ivan approaches.

"I knew I shouldn't trust Tolys," Natasha grumbles. Ivan takes a seat on the pew right behind her, and Natasha shuffles so that her body is facing him, even though her eyes are cast determinedly away.

"You shouldn't," Ivan concurs cheerfully. "He's a revolutionary."

"What?"

"Don't worry, I won't arrest him," Ivan continues, "I let him live once, I can let him live again. But he owes me a life."

Natasha blinks. "Does Pap know?"

"Nope."

"He shouldn't know," she agrees, crossing both legs. The moment stews in quiet sanctitude, and then Natasha hugs both knees to her chest, ankles crossed. "Do you think he knows Ira?"

"Pretty sure they fight for different organisations."

"Oh." Natasha sounds almost disappointed. Ivan can't tell; she's getting so good at masking her emotions. She's becoming more and more like Mama. "But they have the same goals, don't they? They want the same ending."

"They want the system to fall," Ivan confirms, and Natasha flinches. "It's bold, isn't it? The system may have its fault, but it's better than the chaos during the wars. They are chancing anarchy in hopes of change."

"Is the present really that bad?" Natasha asks. "It's not ideal, but I thought Ira is content."

"Peace doesn't last," explains Ivan, and that's an answer, too.

"That's what Ira said." Natasha rests her forehead on her knees. "Do you ever think of Ira? Sometimes, it feels like you never do."

Ivan looks up, and the single cross hanging above the pulpit bears down on him as though it has a million eyes watching. This is why Ivan hates religion, he knows. It's the boogeyman that can't be quantified, surveillance taken to a transcendental level, unavoidable even with all his knowledge and tricks.

Is this why Tolys fight? Why Ira fight? Do they fear the boogeyman staring over their shoulders too? The thought is somewhat humbling, Ivan thinks, to have fear stem from something so childishly instinctive. "How do I not think of her," Ivan whispers. "She was like my sister."

"And yet you didn't save her."

"I couldn't," says Ivan.

"You didn't _try_ ," says Natasha. "In the end, she's just another sacrifice. I know you, Vanya. I know how you became captain - they tell me the stories." More quietly, with a tinge of shame, "Dima told me."

Of course he did. He's never good at lying to family, born or found. "It's not the same."

"How's it not?" Natasha counters. "How can the same man who rose three ranks within two years fail to do something?"

"I didn't say I didn't do anything, Natasha." Ivan rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "But no matter what I did, Ira's still gone."

The implications of the words hang in the air and laugh like sirens after a feast; Natasha's pupils dilate. "Vanya," she says, "what did you do?"

"Whatever is necessary," he answers. Natasha throws her head and lets out a bark that is half hysteria and half relief. "There are many ways to make someone disappear."

"You will kill us all," she says, her voice trembling frightfully close to a sob. Natasha's face flushes with alarmed shame; Ivan pulls her close, arms around her head, and kisses her hair. "Oof."

"I won't forget her," Ivan whispers. "Trust me.

"Come home now."

-

(An interlude:

"I feel like I'm losing you, you know," Gilbert once muttered, during those long, quiet nights when the world doesn't exist and Ira looks at Ivan like she's just realised she's looking at a stranger, and words spoken dissipates into the cold the moment they are spoken, chasing those wispy tendrils of Gilbert's smoking. "You've been avoiding me. I thought you're second-guessing whatever this is again."

Is this a date, or just hanging out, or does Ivan want an out? Is this something or anything or nothing that matters after all? It's a relationship in flux, a small boat in a storm out at sea, always on the verge of capsizing. "I want this to last."

"It doesn't fucking look like it," Gilbert snarls. He takes another drag. "I never know where I stand with you."

"You are standing right beside," Ivan answers, and Gilbert's head snaps towards him. "I mean it." He clears his throat. "It's always a date."

Gilbert drops his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. "It better be," he says.)

-

"Sir," Roman calls out, nervously hurrying along. "The results are back. They cleared the parcel: here." 

Ivan grabs the manila envelope. It's lost its ominous aura now that Natasha's back home and Ira's secret is out. "I'll look at it later," he assures, hurrying down. "Thanks Roma."

Roman blinks in confusion. "I'm German. I don't use short names."

"Sorry," Ivan replies without much thought and slips behind the corner.

He finds Pap's office and knocks on it with three sharp raps. "Sir," Ivan announces, and at Pap's assent, enters the room. 

Ivan grins. "Morning, Pap."

"Don't smile just yet," Pap says, and flicks a document across the table.

Ivan steps forward to pick it up, scanning through the pages. "Pap," he begins slowly, "are we having our budgets cut?"

Pap thins his lips. He is grim as he says, "We are preparing for other expenses."

"Won't I like to know." Ivan pushes the document back. "Should I start preparing a will and cherish every second I have left?"

"You'll know soon enough." Pap tucks the document away. "Viktor took a shine to you. He won't let you die."

"The Polkovnik?"

"Of course it's him. The other two - one is irrelevant, and the other is a snake." Pap frowns at him. "I'll invite Viktor over for dinner; don't waste the opportunity."

"Yessir."

"Now, about the heart of the matter." Pap pauses. "After Feliks and Natasha-" The phone rings. "Sorry, give me a moment."

Pap picks at the receiver. He nods, "Yes, certainly," and nods again. "I understand." Then, "Glory to the motherland, comrade," and he puts down the phone. "Your own personal surveillance is here,"  he informs gravely.

"What?" says Ivan, just as the door opens.

Pap stands up.

Ivan wisely turns and salutes, before stepping aside.

"Major Fyodor Pavlovich," Pap greets. Ivan's eye twitches. 

"Major Mikhail Sergeyevich," Fyodor Pavlovich returns. He looks at Ivan, and his scowl deepens with a certain ferocity that contradicts his literary namesake. "Is this the captain in-charge of the squad with the traitor?"

"Yes."

"Ivan Mikhailovich." The way Fyodor Pavlovich circles him makes Ivan think of a vulture. "How is progress? Have you checked with the Stasi?"

"Soon, sir." Ivan clears his throat. "It's currently under review -"

"What!" Fyodor Pavlovich's sneer of disgust can probably thicken permafrost. "What do you mean, it's not done yet?" 

"Um-"

"Sloppy. Don't think just because you keep your secrets out of sight, they'll be out of mind - I am here now." This is as explicit a threat without outright aggression. Ivan does not flinch. Ivan is also acutely aware that this is the same man who searched his office; another warning, a prelude. But now, that's not important. What's important is that Ivan's got to figure out who entered _after_ him.

"Yes, I understand, sir."

"See to it as soon as possible," Fyodor Pavlovich commands. "You're dismissed, Ivan."

Fyodor Pavlovich says Ivan's name with a singular focus that confirms Ivan's suspicion; Ivan is doomed. He stoically salutes before exiting, and keeps his steps measured until he closes the door behind him.

He turns back forward only to come face-to-face with a passing Karl.

Karl startles.

Ivan smiles placidly.

"Sir," Karl says, eyes darting between the door and Ivan, "what's going on?"

"It is none of your concern," Ivan replies with a cheerfulness he does not feel, "get back to work."

Karl looks ready to bolt, but hesitates at the last moment. "Will," he begins haltingly, "will everything be alright, sir?"

(Roman, eager to step-up to his new role and yet still so green, so unsure, saying, "This is making our new members nervous, sir," says it with the kindness and sensitivity that Ivan always lacks when it comes to people.)

"It will be," Ivan promises. Karl blinks. "Don't worry. Now get to work."

Karl scurries off. Ivan turns back towards the door and makes a few faces at it, because Ivan is apparently not mature enough to skip the grimaces. That is, until he realises that this will be a perfect moment for Fyodor Pavlovich to stick his head out of that door and smugly accuse Ivan of misconduct.

He heads back to his office, dropping the unknown envelope beside some portfolios of new recruits and _that_ one copy of Dostoyevsky. He'll have to keep that book off his desk; pity, it's one of his favourite books too. 

The tick of the clock is tediously loud. Ivan wonders if he can smash it and blame it on rusty nails. Maybe then he'll get one of those new digital prototypes. The world has changed: new technology and a new era, and even this decades-old system is changing to include new recruits for tech surveillance that Ivan can pick from.

He has narrowed it down to two - an Estonian and a Macedonian. It's weird, Ivan thinks, glancing at the two profiles staring mutely back at him. Everything's weird and everything's different: change, just the way that the party claims they like but in practice abhors. New, like Macedonia the nation, made from central planning and Soviet strategic decisions, a culture created from fragments and legalised with an outside hand. 

("It's not _new_ new," Gilbert once said, about Germany. "The idea was already there centuries ago. The culture. The, the nationalism. You've heard of it."

"The 19th Century German Question?"

"Yeah, yeah that." Gilbert scratches his head. "I'm glad you know that; most don't bother. Germany as a united nation has existed for aeons: as the Fatherland, the German dualism between the Prussians and Austrians, as the Holy Roman Empire, or as the Germanies. But it's all fragmented until someone came along and gave everyone a shared cause through war.

“It's powerful, you know, having a common enemy. War is powerful. It makes those different groups think that they belong to the same side, 'handing-over of all power' to the small leading class as 'the condition of survival', and shit." Ivan side-eyes him, but lets it pass. "So that's unity enough for a nation. The rest of the identity-building part will work itself out. Tada, nations are made.")

Everything's new and everything's changed, and yet Ivan is here, in an old run-down office with a job that never changes, day after day after day, repetition at first comforting and now frustrating. 

Sure, he's captain, but then again, he is a man who's made captain within two years of being Lieutenant. Unheard of, ridiculously shady, and secretly, in the darkest of nights when Ivan can finally admit to himself, a mark of extreme restlessness. 

 _I hate my job_ , Ivan realises with a viciousness that startles himself. _Fuck, I hate my job._ And he's going to do this for the rest of his life, a trail of promotions and paperwork already laid out at his feet. He'll manage people, and he'll guard more important people, with all their bureaucracy and politicking that Ivan can debate about in his sleep - all the skills he's perfected. 

All the boring, tedious work he's perfected, for the rest of his life, where he will wait and wait and wait and stop things from happening. _Fuck_.

He needs to stop thinking, Ivan decides, because if he's going to do a career change, he won't be cleared for it now, so there's no point thinking. He makes an aborted motion for the files, hesitation making him grab the manila envelope instead. Tears it open carefully, in case he ever needs to reseal it.

Out tumbles certain classified documents and a single book.

 _Well_ , Ivan thinks, and perhaps this gift is a tip-off after all. 

The documents are a mix of folders that Ivan know are officially passed on by Feliks, and folders that he wasn't aware were lost. Both of these he put aside, mind rapidly rationalising implications. The book - a Zhukovsky verse translation of a novella titled Undine. This is interesting, if simply because it's a Romantic fairy tale, and that can only possibly imply an allegory, which means-

Three raps at the door. "Sir?" It's Sasha.

"Take a seat." Ivan pushes the book beside the folders. Sasha locks the door behind him. "Ah. So you found something from the Germans."

Sasha unfolds the papers tucked under his armpit. "A lot of things," he says, "look."

"So Feliks has notable activities with the Polish underground resistance," Ivan concludes slowly. "That's nothing new."

"No: it's this part." Sasha pulls the document back to circle out certain documents. "You remember Tolys?"

"No."

"Bullshit - of course you do. You used him to get that promotion," Sasha snaps. He moves on, tapping the paper. "Feliks is photographed together with someone who greatly resembles Tolys. That's case number one." That's also a new suspect to add to Ivan's list, but he doesn't voice it. Sasha shuffles the paper and lay out another. "Case two: before Feliks was caught, there were some worrying patterns with his routine - places he frequents. At first, I thought the street names were coded, but if you look at the big picture-"

"The streets connect to form a circle," Ivan finishes. "It's a zone."

"Yes. So I ran up the coordinates and try to figure out who's been following the same patterns. _That_ was inconclusive. I also scouted out the center, but I only found a bus-stop. I checked the nearby buildings and bushes and the trash, but nothing. So I took down the bus numbers."

"That's good," Ivan allows, "go on."

"I relooked through my data again, and then decided to connect the locations in chronological order. And I found -" At this, Sasha pulls out a marked map. "Feliks has been repeatedly tracing the shape of a hexagram."

"Judaism?"

"...Maybe," Sasha decides, "but I'm thinking more of Balkan Orthodox churches."

"Fair point."

"So upon identifying it as a hexagram, things get more fun. Mathematically and algebraically, a few spots are signalled out." Sasha pauses, staring up at Ivan with a solemnity he does not expect. "Your little cousin is a regular at some of these spots, Ivan."

Ivan refuses to react. "What are you talking about?"

"This place, here." He taps on one of the blue crosses. "This is a café with a strong intelligentsia following. Natalya is a regular patron here too. Reports have her being 'sympathetic to their cause'." He points to another. "This place. A church - we all know German churches are problematic. And then this one. A sweets shop. She's said to be regularly buying chocolates for 'a friend', but based on what I _do_ know about your family, you wouldn't be seeing six bags of chocolate and candies every week on your dining table."

"Look, Sasha." Ivan wets his lips. Sasha waits. "I know Natasha. No matter her personal feelings, she wouldn't dare do something like this. She's not a traitor."

"Even after Irina?"

" _Especially_ after Ira."

"I won't normally take your word for it, but fortunately for her, she always had good conduct, and her school reports support it," Sasha assures, "so this is either a coincidence, or she's making some very poor friendship decisions, and you need to stop her."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

"It's nothing." Sasha thins his lips then, as though bracing himself. "Look, I know you would think I'm being paranoid-"

"Out with it, Sasha."

"There's another person I singled out." Sasha exhales, already looking tired. "It's Gilbert."

Ivan raises both eyebrows. "Are you sure it is not your own bias?"

Sasha's face hardens. "You chose me for this job for my professionalism," he snaps, "so you should know better." He continues without waiting for Ivan's response, "In southern Germany, the hexagram is also called the _Bierstern_ or _Brauerstern_ as a symbol of beer-tapping or the brewer's guild, and is commonly found as part of tavern anchors. Guess what is here -" A green mark this time, at the outermost range of the hexagram, "and who regularly visits it?"

"It can be another coincidence."

"You would think," Sasha replies, "but Gilbert apparently also regularly take all the bus numbers that branch out of the center. Always to the last stop, and always at least one bus route every week."

Ivan rubs at his own eyes. "He's a photographer and a journalist, Sasha. He's bound to frequent dubious places."

"Stop rationalising things away-"

"I am not-"

"You are being an apologist right now, your judgement is clouded, you -"

"Sasha, will you shut up!"

The yell is a surprise to even Ivan; the hush that follows seems too loud when the air is still reverberating. Somewhere outside, someone must be gossiping. Ivan inhales sharply. "We are talking about Feliks, aren't we?" Ivan reaches for the documents from the unnamed envelope, all the confidential information that is likely leaked. "I received what was possibly a tip-off two days ago. Inside was these documents and that book over there. I believe these are the information leaked, and-"

"A book? Is it that one? Do you think they hid a code in it or -" Sasha grabs it, frowning down at the cover. "Undine." He stares accusingly up at Ivan. "That dubious envelope contains _Undine_."

"I know what it looks like-"

"You call the envelope a tip-off _yourself_ , Ivan," Sasha hisses, waving the novella. "And Undine? A book translated from _German_ about a _water sprite_ that transformed into a human? For fucking _love_? If this is not _screaming_ the truth in your face, I don't know what else will."

"You're projecting."

"Projecting what?!" Sasha shouts. "Stop being stubborn, Ivan!"

"And you should stop overstepping your authority," Ivan replies coldly. "Undine is a very popular fairytale. Many people owned a copy of it."

"But this specific edition? I bet that if you search Gilbert's apartment," Sasha challenges, "you would find the exact same copy."

"He doesn't read Russian that well."

"Please, Ivan," Sasha says, "listen to yourself. Russian is a compulsory subject in schools, and Gilbert is good enough to go to _university_. Zhukovsky's translation?" He slams Undine down onto the table. "It won't be a problem for him." He straightens up. Salutes. "If that is all, I'll be dismissed."

Sasha slams the door after him. Ivan should really write him up for disrespect - he really should, at this point, but his head hurts and he's tired and his mind is bursting with so much thought that the only thing Ivan can do is to close his eyes and tilt his head back, and breathe in and out and in and out.

-

In the end, Ivan is not adamant without cause. He's not being unreasonable - he is _not_ wilfully blind to Sasha's logic. He knows what it looks like, but Ivan, Ivan's _captain_. Ivan needs to consider beyond facts, sees the context, and what Ivan sees is a beautiful set-up.

It's obvious: only Sasha and he knows that Gilbert is codenamed _Rusalka_. Only two men - not any tip-off, not any other informant watching the Germans, much less one that knows that Sasha and Ivan _know_ German files.

It's too easy; there has to be a troublemaker involved.

Who sent Undine? Who _placed_ the parcel in his office, is the question - a man who is able to slip past security and into his office unnoticed. (But is it that hard? Ivan had slipped Gilbert among his guards before. Fyodor Petrovich has _waltzed_ in and none of his guards paid attention, because everyone's so tired, everyone's so busy, it's so _easy_ -) It must have been a series of fortunate coincidences, for the culprit to strike the same day that the brass searched Ivan's office during one of the busiest period of the year.

"Roman," Ivan begins when Roman is called over, "have you reviewed the surveillance footage?"

"Yessir. There was no one that stood out." There is a hesitation, then, a lapse that feels vaguely like shame at their negligence. "But there is this period of time when the footage's tampered."

Doubtlessly when Fyodor Petrovich decides to conduct his search. "Show them to me later." Ivan leans back in his chair. "What about tracing Feliks?"

"No sightings, sir. Whoever does it either slipped Feliks out already on the first night, or Feliks is in hiding somewhere."

Hopefully the latter, but Ivan will still review the security footage at the checkpoints later, just in case. "Thank you, Roman," Ivan dismisses. The clock strikes _tik, tik, tik_ , almost accusing in their apathy, and Ivan catches himself. "Wait. Roman, can you cover for me again, today? I want the rest of the day off."

Roman looks like he painfully wants to groan. "Sir?"

"Do it yourself, or, or find someone who can do overtime today. I'll clear the tab of whoever takes over." Roman's face visibly lights up - oh _money_ , the key to people’s heart. "Remember to assign someone to watch my office when I'm not around. _And_ don't let Major Fyodor Petrovich pry."

Roman, predictably, snorts.

Ivan can't quite keep his lips from quirking. "Unfortunately, he's not a wastrel like his namesake, and _will_ get me shipped off for re-education if he can help it, so make sure you do your job well." Ivan stands up. "Now then."

Roman salutes eagerly. "Trust me, sir," he says, "I won't betray your confidence in me."

Ivan smirks. "We'll see," he says, and is startled that he laughs when Roman puffs up his chest proudly like a frog.

-

There is a disconcerting moment of dysphoria as Ivan stands in Gilbert's room, the pervasive surveillance looped or tampered or awaiting future theft by (probably) Sasha from the archives, and Gilbert's lock brazenly picked without fear of curious eyes, now that Mdm Gras has moved away.

Maybe it's that it is the first time that he's alone here; maybe it's because it is the first time he visits uninvited and unwanted. Or maybe, it is that he is betraying Gilbert's trust just standing here, behaving like the party-state's favourite watchdog. 

(He remembers Ira, the fire burning in her eyes the way flames dance in Pap's.)

Ivan searches.

The Stasi has searched Gilbert before - Sasha has checked - and for them to not find anything means that anything conclusive must be hidden where they either dare not pry open or have not thought of searching.

Under the floorboards? Between the mattresses? In the walls? Tucked under the window sill? In all those locked drawers and cupboards that Ivan has never looked through? Where else is a good hiding spot in an apartment this bare, Ivan wonders, stepping warily across the floorboards, rolling his feet from heels to balls to toes. There is the sort of things that Gilbert _may_ hide too to consider - this Ivan knows is true, that Gilbert must be hiding something. If not contraband, then banned books at least; he never watches his slips anymore after the first few times Ivan lets it slide.

Then Ivan catches sight of Gilbert's unlocked wardrobe, and he thinks, of course it's here, of course it's where it's hiding in plain sight. Opens it up, empties all of Gilbert's belongings onto the bed. Remove the board at the back to find another board. This, while dubious enough, is where the Stasi will stop - if they even go so far, but Ivan knows this trick. He digs his nails into the corners of the board - digs until the paper starts to peel - and Ivan tears the whole wallpaper down and off the board.

Carefully taped on the board, edges smoothed out, are documents and papers and photographs and _letters_ \- a whole wall of them. 

Ivan inhales deeply and removes all of them.

There will be more, Ivan thinks. Where are the _books_? There must be more than a single hiding spot, because Undine is innocuous but _Orwell_ will get Gilbert arrested, yet Ivan sees _none_ of them. At his office? Maybe? Ivan looks back across the room. There has to be more. 

He pushes the bed off the wall; pushes the bedstead away too. Tears the wallpaper down. Tears down the other one, and almost tried dragging the radiator off the walls by its nails before common sense got the better of him. He finds a cranny in the wall, a long crack in which Gilbert stuffs more letters and several books, one of which is Zhukovsky's Undine - specifically the 1912 A.F. Devriena edition - that seems newly shoved in. 

Ivan digs out a toolbox from one of Gilbert's drawers and finally removes the radiator from the wall. Hidden in the walls, behind the nails and amidst the wires, are Pasternak and Zamyatin and Grossman, with careful correspondence stuck between them. No Orwell nor Bulgakov, although what Ivan has already found is damning enough.

Ivan slumps onto the bed, staring at all the papers staring back at him, and begins to read.

-

Don’t ask, don’t think, don’t speak - keep the peace. That's the way of his parents, the lessons that Ivan learns to tuck into his heart for as long as he knows to speak; the values that his grandparents taught his parents, and his parents to him, so that they could become each other - they could be a family.

But now? Now Ivan does not know if he can turn back the time, keep mum about all these knowledge he doesn't know to ignore.

He can tidy up the room - he _is_ tidying up the room, nailing back the radiator and sticking the papers back up, even if he hadn't been able to salvage the wallpaper, but - but the evidence is there, Sasha is right, the informant is right, the sun is setting and the streetlights glow like the stars above and _don't they know that it's the end of the world?_

 _La da dee da, la da dee da_. Ivan closes his eyes and remembers to breathe. 

-

Gilbert startles when he sees Ivan sitting cross-legged on his bed, his wallpapers torn and his books (not all; Ivan replaced the books and their letters behind the radiator) scattered across the duvet.

"You searched me?!" Gilbert yells. His knuckles are white. 

Ivan puts down the letter he's reading. _(R will be making a crossing on Thursday, one of the letters signed by L -_ no points for guessing who - _says. Meet him at 3, at high noon_.) "Do you want to tell me what are these?"

"Why are you asking the questions? You broke into my apartment and _searched me_."

Ivan ignores that. He places it down and holds out another document. It's an application to cross the border, half-filled. Gilbert tentatively takes it, face grim and pale as he scans through the paper. Is it fear? Panic? Rage? Ivan can't tell. "What else are you hiding?"

It's only a flicker, one that Gilbert catches, but Ivan sees the split-second glance at the lamp. Huh. An investigation for another day. "Nothing," Gilbert retorts. "What are _you_ doing, searching me like a common fucking criminal?"

"Trying to prove myself wrong," Ivan answers. "You've been meeting illegals."

"It's part of my job," Gilbert defends. "We all need some contacts."

"Your contacts include meeting known traffickers?" 

"They're not _traffickers_!" Gilbert yells. When he realises what this implies, he takes a step back. "Is it wrong that I want to talk to my family without someone reading our correspondence or listening in to our conversation?"

"That depends." Ivan gets to his feet. Gilbert stands his ground, this time. "Does it include smuggling contraband to be spread in underground circles?" 

"I don't do that."

"Ah," Ivan guesses, "so it's only for personal use?"

"Ivan."

"Is that what it is?" Ivan says. He clears his throat. "You've been trying to emigrate all along?"

"No! I -" Gilbert wets his lips. He looks at Ivan like Ivan's holding a gun to his head. "I - no."

"Then what?" Ivan holds up another stack of papers. "Because none of these is suggesting anything good. Give me one good reason why I should still trust you after this."

"I did _not_ use you-"

"It doesn't fucking look like it -"

"I took up the job, you idiot!" Gilbert tosses the paper back at him. He takes big strides across the room, until he's toe-to-toe with Ivan. He's heaving. "Fuck you, Ivan, you told me to stay. So I took up the offer. The permanent listing with the press." He inhales sharply. "I took it up."

"I thought you -"

"I thought so too," Gilbert confirms quietly. He deflates, all of a sudden, a gasp of air like a resigned soldier ready for the last hurrah. "But I promised you that I'll stay. So since I'm stuck here, I gotta think for myself too." He looks at Ivan. "I took up the job for _you_ , asshole, so don't go throwing the blame on me. What else do you want from me?"

It is like the frantic weight of the last few days finally caught up with Ivan; the world spins, his lungs is suffocatingly compressed, and Ivan suddenly feels immeasurably tired. "A peace of mind," Ivan admits. "I don't know what you did, but what I have here, whether it's a meet between old friends or a courier between you and your family across the wall, or, or something more - these are too much, Gilbert," he continues quietly. "All I want to know is if I can trust you."  

Something too fast flashes across Gilbert's eyes. "I'm not using you, Ivan," he promises. "I'm not using _us_ for anything."

Ivan rubs his temples. He walks away, around the room, and then back to the bed. "Ok," he says, sitting down, closing his eyes. "Ok. Just, give me a moment."

"I'm -" Gilbert swallows. "Fuck this. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too." _In and out, in and out, a dance a sequence a repetition, up and down of tides, the swell of pain, a drip of time, the thrum of his heart in his ears, past and future, in and out -_ "For searching you. Like this. Like a criminal."

"Hey." Gilbert awkwardly sits beside him, his satchel lowered gingerly at their feet. "You've got cause to be paranoid. And you're not wrong, although you're not right anyway. I just -" He nudges his shoulders against Ivan's. "Sorry." Ivan continues breathing. "Wait - shit, here. Let me -"

The satchel is tugged up again, the sound of rummaging, a quiet _aha_ before Gilbert is elbowing him. "Here."

Ivan opens his eyes. It's a photograph of both of them; he barely remembers this one. "What's this," he says, and means, _why now?_

Gilbert seems to take it literally. "The picture of us at the Sanssouci, remember?" He scoots closer, flicking at the corners. "I made a copy but _always_ forgot to pass one to you. So here." He traces Ivan's image then, a surprisingly tender motion that would have Ivan blushing if he isn't on the verge of throwing up. "You have sad eyes." Then, meeting Ivan's eyes so firmly that Ivan can't breathe, Ivan is choking, his whole life boiling down to Gilbert because this is the one good thing Ivan did, the one thing that Ivan hasn't torn apart like an entitled hatchling in selfish disregard for its shell, and yet Ivan just -

"Ivan," Gilbert mutters. "Are you ok?"

What a great question. _Is_ Ivan ok? With his head killing him, pressure from the top, pressure from family, pressure from every other occurrence that threatens to sweep him off his feet and off a cliff - _is Ivan ok_? Beautiful question.

"Yes," he lies, "I'm ok, yes." Then, he realises Gilbert is waiting for his questions - playground etiquette, taking turns and all, and oh look, Ivan is maniacal. "You - are we ok?" 

"Yeah, I guess we are." Gilbert curls Ivan's fingers around the photograph. "As ok as we'll ever be." 

"That's good enough for me," says Ivan. 

-

Fyodor Petrovich's shadow looms over everyone when Ivan heads back to the office. 

"Dreary," Ivan comments, and Roman looks at him with a pained frown.

"I told him there was an emergency with your underground contacts," Roman whispers. "I'm not sure if he buys it." 

"Who knows." Ivan makes Roman stare him in the eye. "Do I look tired enough to you?" 

"Worse, sir: you look haunted."

"Then he'll buy it," Ivan decides. Beside them, Petto fidgets and pretends not to hear the conversation.

"Do you think everything's going to be fine, sir?" he asks. 

Anxiety is a modest but potent poison, and Ivan sees it, the fear tinting Petto's face green and his fingers cold, and Ivan says, "Don't concern yourself about it," and he says with confidence he doesn't feel, "I'll handle it," and then, just for a hint of normalcy, jokes, "Unless you have a guilty conscience?"

Petto's eyes widen comically. "No!"

"Then there is nothing to worry about," Ivan assures firmly. "Nothing will happen. Go do your assigned work."

"Sir," says Roman when Petto trots away. "Do you really think everything will be fine?"

"A little optimism never hurts anyone." Ivan turns away in clear dismissal. He takes a step. "Oh, and one more thing."

"Sir?"

"Is there anyone you can spare?" Ivan asks. Roman blinks. "Send them off to run some errands for me. I need to mail some films."

"Films?"

"Yes. Buy some new rolls, wrap them up, and mail them over - I'll write you the address in a while."

"Why - _oh_ ," Roman trails off, voice softened, and Ivan _knows_ that he must be smiling.

"I made a promise," Ivan answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) basically, ivan's reaction throughout this entire chapter was like [holt from b99](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mU7IUprPqag), except replace it with the word "GONE????!?!?!?!"  
> 2) why goga y says that his name is a mouthful is because everyone is speaking in a mix of primarily german with a smattering of russian, and y in german is pronounced ypsilon. for more information, go [here](https://www.rocketlanguages.com/german/lessons/german-alphabet) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEaQVdCwhsI)  
> 3) i never want to write ever again. this chpt is unedited and will never be edited because i will probs rehaul like half of this and also i refuse to work through these 11k words again  
> 4) also this fic is now 40k words jfc


End file.
